


Dawning of the Moon

by st_jimmy_987



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, F/M, M/M, Musicalverse, Near is Christine, Singing, Slight Angst?, how do I tag this?, kira and light are two people, phantom point of view, slight major character death, there are some songs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_jimmy_987/pseuds/st_jimmy_987
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Near is a young danseur under the tutelage of the opera house's resident Phantom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was always watching, always.

He was only a child when he'd come to the opera house, after all, only five years old and already full of misery. The whole of its underground was his playground, its workers and artists his unwitting playmates. Only Lawliet knew of his true identity, though they both knew that Whammy had his suspicions. He was carefully kept out of sight, but was determined to never be out of mind. He caused trouble and mischief for everyone in the opera house, hiding instruments and costumes and, on one noteworthy occasion, even the entirety of the stable horses. The last one had gotten him into so much trouble, Lawliet had set about giving him something to occupy his time; as such, through his intense watchings, he learned much about how the opera house was run. How to manage the money, the care and keeping of the establishment, how to decide who to attract and how to keep them interested in order to keep the opera house running with funds from Vicomtes and heiresses and royalty. He learned how to manage the stage, how to direct the artists and stagehands, learned how to work the ropes and pulleys for the back drops.

He learned how to read notes, play instruments and sing. It was his favorite pastime out of everything the opera house could offer, and he smuggled many instruments to his underground home as best as he could. His voice was deep for his age, the type Lawliet always told him he would grow into properly some day, and it always mixed beautifully with his piano or violin. While he wasn't busy with the harassment of the opera workers or the runnings of the opera house, he was tucked away underground creating music on his own.

Then, when he was fourteen years old and set in his role as a phantom that both helped and hindered and struck a sort of wary fear in the opera populations, a pale little boy affectionately nicknamed Near was brought to the opera house. He’d watched intently as the boy was shuffled into the dormitory for the ballet rats by Lawliet, carrying a small bag and sniffling just a bit with red rimmed eyes. While the boy settled in, he kept a silent and unknown vigil over him, wanting to know more about the boy that was white as snow yet quiet as a mouse. He was careful not to make a sound as Near settled into a bed, staying tucked away in the ceiling where he kept watch over the ballerinas. Lawliet left with a stern glance in his direction, yet he stayed as an unknown companion. There was something about this small child, something that made him want to protect and keep safe instead of torment. Near looked tiny and fragile, curling up on the bed and making himself impossibly smaller under the blankets. His hair blended into the pillow, his face nearly doing the same, and he wanted to run his fingers through the boy’s hair and see if it was as soft as it looked.

It wasn't until the boy clasped his hands and started praying that he even moved; and then he slipped away, silent as a shadow, until he was sure he was as far away from Near as he could get. Prayers were private and sacred, and he was always careful to respect that in others. His face and actions damned him already, he didn't need any further transgressions in his lifetime.

He ran all the way to Lawliet’s office, skidding to a silent stop when he saw the older man was busy with their prima donna, Misa, and her husband. Scrunching up his nose in distaste, he leaned against the wall to wait her out; he distantly felt annoyed with himself as he realized that there was nothing to do to entertain himself, and Misa only sounded as though her rant had just started. His eyes glazed over, he thought back to Near again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the story begins.

“Head back just a little more, Near.” The seventeen year old boy obeyed, straightening his back and pushing his shoulders back just a bit more. His eyes, easily the darkest feature of him, were blank and staring straight ahead of him. The Phantom prowled behind the wall, his fingers twitching. The urge to run the slim appendages through Near’s hair hadn't abated at all in the past seven years, which was only a vague annoyance. Still, he worked past it in order to focus more on the pale boy’s training.

“I only have another twenty minutes.” Near said tonelessly, his own voice just this side of monotonous and blank. The stone allowed it to sound a little louder than it usually would have been, and as his voice carried Near looked just the slightest bit proud. Had he spoken at the same volume just two years prior, there was no way he would have been heard. Still, he had much further to go, and he only had one willing teacher to take him such a distance. The Phantom growled at the interruption to the much needed training he still needed, but the pale boy remained unfazed. “Rehearsal will be soon, after all. Lawliet doesn't appreciate it when I'm late, especially given that I'm not able to properly explain my reasoning for it.”

“Fine.” The Phantom crossed his arms, mind now buzzing about the rehearsal instead of continuing with Near. There was something going on, something he wasn't sure was a good thing. Whammy, the old man who managed the opera house, had decided that he was due for retirement. The old man had already decided on his replacements, more than one because he felt that his job would be too much for one single person alone. That notion didn't sit well with the resident Phantom, who was already irritated that the man was leaving; he felt it meant Whammy was leaving his precious opera house to incompetent people. He watched with a thoughtful frown as Near’s posture relaxed, though the boy didn't move from his spot in the middle of the room. They stood in a comfortable silence for a few moments, both lost in their thoughts. “Well, run along then little one. Wouldn't want you to be late for your rehearsal, after all.”

“Misa would pitch quite a fit.” The Phantom scoffed irritably at the prima donna’s name, irritation flaring through him at her mere mentioned presence. He watched quietly as Near tilted his head to the right, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular; his unseen companion watched in fascination as his pale fingers buried themselves in his snow white hair and began twirling the strands. He’d been about to comment on the action when Near spoke again. “Would you happen to know why she is being particularly difficult as of late?”

“Why is that overgrown child ever difficult?” He scoffed again, shrugging even though he knew Near couldn't see him. Near’s eyes focused on a different spot entirely, far too close to the area where the Phantom stood. He moved silently; the small alcove where they practiced was perfect for moments like these. Careful to make sure his voice continued to echo throughout the small space, he continued, allowing his irritation with her to lace through his words. “I'm fairly sure it's the girl’s only setting, after all.” The hint of a smile crossed Near’s face, the corner of his lip twitching upward only once. Warmth began spreading through the Phantom, both from his heart and on his face. Seeing Near’s amusement as openly as that was so rare that it made him feel a sense of accomplishment.

Footsteps made their presence known, and a few seconds later Linda burst into the room. She was red and panting, her bangs sticking slightly to her forehead from running. The Phantom didn't move, pleased that he hadn't been in the midst of a sentence when she came in. Near had yet to move to acknowledge her presence, though; not even his finger was twirling in his hair anymore.

“There you are!” Linda was suddenly trying to control her obvious panting since shed found who she was searching for. Near finally deigned to turn around, his face back to impassiveness. The other ballerina pushed her hair back just a bit, trying to gather herself and look more presentable. It was an unconscious movement on her part, one that Lawliet trained into his dancers from an early age. Her eyes darted around the empty room almost nervously. “L’s sent me. He wants you to be reminded that practice is in twenty minutes, and he expects you to be on time for this one. Misa won't hesitate to have you thrown out of the performance this time. She's been really on edge lately, for some weird reason.”

“I was just preparing to leave.” Near informed her bluntly. He twisted around slowly, almost unwillingly. His eyes roamed the walls quickly, as though hoping to look through the stone. “L didn't have to send you at all.”

The Phantom smirked just a bit. Lawliet had sent Linda as a warning for them both, thought the pale dancer didn't realize it. An irritating one for Near, but also a silent one for him; after all, the man knew of his plans for the young danseur he'd taken under his tutelage, though the ballet master could only help to an extent. He turned a blind eye to Near’s tardiness, pretending not to know what kept the pale boy so behind in time, and defended his skills against Misa when the prima donna pitched her temper tantrums.

Still, this rehearsal in particular was rather important, and as such, tardiness was much less tolerated.

“What were you doing in here anyway?” Linda was asking nosily, already turning to walk back to the stage on the lower floor. Near’s posture stiffened just a little bit, but his answer was cool and calm, if just a little bit irritated.

“I was praying.” He said. Linda flushed darker, this time having nothing to do with exertion, and Near continued as if her embarrassment meant nothing to him. “After all, this little alcove is used as a sort of makeshift chapel, is it not? For prayer and memorials and whatnot?” She pursed her lips and glanced back into the room as the paler boy strode past her. He could hear Near’s voice as he said something else, but it was muffled by the walls and Linda closing the door.

His young protégé gone, the Phantom walked casually through the halls that made up the walls of the opera house. The torches weren't lit, but he knew all the twists and turns by heart; he didn't need them on, and even in the dark his footsteps were sure and steady and silent. He knew Near and Linda would reach the stage on the first floor before him, because they were rushing and had practice to get to, but that wasn't his current destination. After all, he didn't have practice to go to, though he was likely to show up anyway. He loved watching Near’s achievements in both dance and song, and he wanted to get home quickly so that he had more time to watch.

The hallway gave way to a set of stairs, narrowed and stone. He descended quickly, jumping over the step that activated the trapdoor in this area. His footsteps were more rushed now, louder in the confidence of knowing no one would hear him. His progress now unhindered by that particular worry, he made it to the bottom of the stairs in almost record time.

These particular set of stairs led to a damp hallway, one that was not particularly long. At the end of it, just barely in his sight, was the outline of a door. He hastened to it, pulling it open and nearly blinding himself; after quite a few moments in the dark, even the dimly lit candles were almost too much for his poor eyesight.

The door was the entryway to a room, his own. There was his bed in the corner opposite, neatly made for the next night sleep would take him. There was a single bedside table, a white mask nearly glowing upon it. There was another door near the foot of the bed, leading to a closet that held clothes. On the wall to his right was a chair, a cello leaning against the wall beside it. To his right was another door, this one leading to the main room of his cavern. Candles were one in each corner, lighting up the nearly empty space of his room.

He entered quietly and shut the door. The key was where he'd left it, and he turned the lock so that this particular route to his room was barred. Reaching up, he took a hold of the heavy velvet curtain and pulled it down, hiding it from sight. As he turned, his shoes scraped against the cold stone floor. They echoed his steps as he crossed the room, opened the door that lead to the main room, and closed the door behind him.

The light was brighter now, many more candles decorating the living area, but his eyes had grown used to the bright glow and it no longer blinded him. He walked quickly past the giant piano that was directly in front of his room, running the back of his hand over the smooth surface of it. It stood to the left of the giant space; in the center of the living area was a sofa, big enough to comfortably sit six people on it. Behind the sofa was a door, one that lead to a kitchen and dining area. A few feet to the right was another door, one that housed another room that he ignored for the moment.

Instead, he set his gaze upon the side table next to the sofa. On the top were two papers, both written on and unsealed, opened to dry as best as they could in the damp cavern. They had been written early this morning, and he plucked one up to scan it briefly.

‘My new managers,’ it started, and he folded it gently with a sigh. This one would have to be sealed soon, because their new managers would be arriving at any moment. It was crucial that they get this right away, because he was certain that Whammy wouldn't want them to change how he ran his opera house. Besides that, as their menacing ghost, he wouldn't like having to relearn how to manage the opera’s usual day to day stuff.

Glancing back towards his room as he sealed the letter, he wondered if he should retrieve the white mask on his bedside table. He wasn't going to be staying behind a stone wall, after all, he was going out into the open where people would be able to catch a glimpse of him. As their Phantom, he was almost obligated to give them a face to their fears; a simple glimpse of the white mask and dark cloak would mean instant recognition, and would therefore give his orders some authoritative edge. They would be more likely to follow his wishes with the frightened population of the Opera House clamoring because they'd seen him lurking over the stage.

Yet the mask itself was extremely uncomfortable, hard and unyielding against the scars that decorated his face. And the cloth ones he had were all dark, helping him to blend into the shadows of the stage. He sat gracefully on the sofa, staring almost broodingly at the door to his room while the wax set.

Ultimately, he decided against it. He had no wish to return to his room at the moment, because the exit he was going to be using was on the other side of his own living space. He would have to make due with the letter and the fear filled words of the opera’s populations to sway the managers at this moment.

Grabbing his cape and throwing it on, he walked out of the living area and up a set of stairs directly opposite his room. They were wide and open, creating the perfect view from which to see the majority of his home with a single glance. These particular set of stairs only Lawliet used; they led to the man’s office, where there was a large ceiling to floor mirror doubling as a door. There were no traps along this route, and it was the quickest way up to the stage for him at this point. He checked his pocket watch as he went up, the time reading close to two-thirty in the afternoon.

Whammy would be interrupting rehearsals soon, to introduce the new managers of the opera house.

XxX

He grit his teeth in annoyance, his rage a silent one in the midst of the crowd. He'd gone up to the stage, and gotten briefly distracted by watching Near as he danced. The boy was still small, but he had a calm, graceful sort of presence that drew the eye towards him even when he was dancing in the third row.

He had changed out of his normal day to day wear, white pajamas that were just a bit too big for him and softer than any other material. Now he was dressed from the waist down, heavy golden jewelry adorning his neck and arms. His costume was a bright crimson, small and worthy for the depiction of a slave. Of all performances to leave before, Whammy had chosen their production of Hannibal.

Still, Near looked breathtaking, catching his attention enough to keep Misa’s shrill screeching blocked out. He noticed that as the boy danced, Near kept a constant movement of his mouth; no doubt he was following along with Misa, having learned what words she would be singing as his practice. It was a habit he'd developed when deciding to train Near. Whatever lead role the prima donna had, Near would sing her parts in training. It gave him a nice range to work with, while also helping along with his plans for the boy’s future.

The point being, he'd been distracted and focusing on Near. Which meant that when Whammy had appeared on stage with a man and a woman behind him, he almost didn't realize who they were right away.

Until he heard them introducing themselves as Takada Kiyomi and Mikami Teru. He scowled at her, casting her from his thoughts almost the second he lay eyes on her. A woman, thinking she could run Whammy’s Opera House? No wonder the old man had gotten two managers. She would be too easy to control, being that she was a woman and was probably prone to being frightened by the kind of pranks he would pull. And as for Mikami…he scoffed. What kind of man needed a woman’s help to run a business?

His eyes were drawn to Near once again, who was twirling his hair in his fingers. He looked especially bored with the proceedings, even allowing Linda to stand next to him and chatter his ear off. His dark eyes darted up to the darkness where the stage hands worked, searching the rafters for something only he knew. The Phantom watched as the dark orbs glanced over him, mixed into the shadows, a small smirk on his face. His young protégé most likely wanted to know if he was there, trying to search him out on the chance that he was keeping an eye on him like he'd promised.

The dark eyes were brought back down to the stage as the other dancers began to make way for someone else, someone who was apparently a little late when it came to appointments. The Phantom watched as they parted way to reveal the Vicomte who would be their patron, a young man with plain clothes that looked more expensive than the entire wardrobe of the opera’s populations. He was dismissive of him already, until Near caught his eye for a third time.

The boy was whispering fiercely to Linda, straightening his back the way he did during training and staring straight at the Vicomte. There was a strange look in his dark eyes, recognition and excitement, one that looked nearly hopeful as the Vicomte neared him. Linda was practically squealing into her hands, watching with wide eyes between the two boys.

The Vicomte strode briskly past them without any consideration towards the dancers, not even a glance to show he saw them. Near’s posture slowly returned to his usual slouch, his fingers intwining with his hair instantly; his eyes regained their normal blank look, not necessarily looking at anything but taking in everything. Linda looked disappointed enough for him, putting one hand on Near’s shoulder. In response, he hunched his shoulder in a bit more, and she pulled her hand away from him as the Vicomte was introduced. She said something quietly to him, and he shook his head negatively in response to whatever question she asked him.

The Phantom looked their new patron over carefully, watching as he spoke. He was young, certainly, for a Vicomte. His youth wasn't spoken in his posture but in his face and the way his words were formed eagerly with a sort of rehearsed air; as if the roundness of youth hadn't yet faded away completely and someone else had written out the words he was to say. He was well dressed and clean, much cleaner than the opera population could get on any given day, and very handsome. The Phantom watched his excited expression as Misa was introduced as their main headliner, the way excitement fell to a respect when her husband Kira was introduced from the stage.

It wasn't until Misa’s screeching pierced the air that he finally took his gaze off of Near. Wincing at her shrill voice missing her high notes, the Phantom glanced back to the front of the stage.

There were the two managers, doing what everyone else was doing: pretending to appreciate Misa’s singing in order to appease her. The opera populations, far more used to this than the new managers, were successfully hiding their winces at each strangled note. He allowed her a few moments of the spotlight; swiftly as he dared, the Phantom pulled himself up to the catwalk where the ropes were tied. There wasn't anyone around because their practice had been interrupted, which meant he had free reign to do as he pleased.

He untied a single rope, feeling the weight of the backdrop in his hand. Misa hadn't hit the chorus of the song yet, and so he waited for just a few moments longer; he reached over the side and dropped his letter, watching it as it fluttered gracefully to the floor. Right as she paused to take a breath, he completely let go of the rope and the backdrop fell.

There were screams from the dancers as it crashed to the stage; it knocked Misa off of her feet, completely covering her in the heavy cloth. She shrieked loudly, damaging her voice even more than it was before. Smirking, he fled up several catwalks to hide in the shadows once more. From his viewpoint, he watched the chaos unfurl: dancers were crowded together upstage, in various stages of panic. Downstage, Misa was struggling under the backdrop, Kira having flown to her side to pull it off and help her up. The new managers looked startled, Whammy and Lawliet both turning to the side to hide what was undoubtably amusement. On the catwalk, Light was skidding to a careful stop to where the backdrops were tied to the rail, looking around as if he could still catch the culprit.

“Light!” Mikami called authoritatively, trying already to begin his role as manager. Lawliet had crossed the stage easily, unnoticed by everyone as he did so. The Phantom watched as he walked off stage calmly, eyes already on the ground. “Light, what's going on up there?”

“I don't know!” Light called back. One of the stage hands had gone down to the stage, grabbing the rope that held the backdrop and tossing it back up to him. The stage hand caught it easily, throwing it up over the rail that held the backdrops up. Catching it once more, he pulled it up, straining only the slightest bit with the weight of it. It raised itself up slowly, and Kira shot his brother a dirty look as he helped his wife up.

“What do you mean, you don't know?” He shouted, accusation coloring his voice. “You're the one in charge up there, aren't you?”

“It wasn't me!” The stage hand shot back, offended. “There's no one here. It must have been him!” The dancers screamed again, huddled closer together and looking around in fear. Whammy straightened, looking somewhat serious and somber. The managers, however, looked confused.

“Who could it have been?” Takada asked.

“Our Phantom.” Light tied the rope securely, and didn't move from his spot. He crossed his arms and leaned on the rail, looking down at the crowd below him. “If there was no one here, and there wasn't a single soul, then this accident was the fault of the Phantom.”

“That's insane!” Mikami frowned. “You think this was the fault of some-some ghost?”

“It's not insane!” Misa had straightened her dress and was yelling furiously now. He appreciated that he could see, even from so high up, how deliciously embarrassment painted her cheeks. “That's the second time he's dropped something on me this month so far! He's been a thorn in my side for the past three years. How dare he!” The Phantom, secure in his hideaway, sniggered silently at her outrage. It served her right, what he did to her. How the prima donna treated the people around her, and her atrocious singing, was cause enough for whatever he did. She was lucky it wasn't worse, what with her propensity towards temper tantrums like the one she was throwing now.

“Now, now.” Takada said soothingly, reaching out as if to place a calming hand on Misa’s shoulder. The blonde threw a furious look at her, almost daring her to say what the prima donna thought she was going to. The black haired woman pulled her hand back, but continued anyway. “These things do happen sometimes, my- - -”

“These things do happen?” Misa repeated incredulously, cutting Takada off. The manager looked annoyed at that, but Misa stomped her foot. “Didn't you hear me? For the past two weeks, ‘these things do happen’! Hell, for the past _three years_ , ‘ _these things do happen_ ’!” She threw a furious finger at Whammy, who was standing to the side looking innocent. “And did you stop them from happening? No!”

“Miss Amane, honestly- - -”

“And you two are as bad as he is!” The girl stomped her foot again. “You have no right to say that to me! You don't know what it's like, having him as a menacing shadow in the background, knowing that he can do what he wants without any repercussions! I can't believe this kind of treatment is going to be happening into new management!”

“Now, really,” Takada tried again, “see here- - -”

“No, _you_ see here!” Misa glowered, “either you find a way to stop that damned Phantom from harassing me, or this production is not going to be going on! Because I quit!” There was a stunned silence to her proclamation. She spun on her heel, her dress spinning gracefully around her as she did so. It was the only thing about her that was graceful as she strode off stage, Kira following after her. The Phantom smirked as they left, sending them off with a mocking wave.

“On that note, I shall take my leave as well.” Whammy bowed to Takada and Mikami respectively, keeping a straight face when they looked at him with twin horror. “I would remind you both that Miss Amane has no stand in, as she is our usual lead and had never before missed a performance. Since that is the case, I would recommend that you have this situation sorted out as quickly as you can. I wish you both the best of luck.”

“There's no- - -you're just…” Takada faltered as Lawliet appeared, holding the letter opened in his hand. She sighed heavily, covering her eyes as she asked, “Lawliet, what is that?”

“I have a message for you.” He said, looking back down at it. “From the Opera Ghost.”

“Good lord.” Mikami rolled his eyes. “You're all obsessed with this thing!”

“Whether you believe in him or not is irrelevant.” Lawliet shrugged without looking up. “He welcomes you to his Opera House,” and ignoring Takada’s incredulous cry echoing his words, “and would like to inform you that as Box Five is the best seat in the audience, it will continue to be kept open for his use and enjoyment.” There was a brief silence as Lawliet scanned the letter quickly. “And would like to remind you that his salary is due on the first on the month, so it would be in your best interests to keep that in mind when planning expenses.”

“A ghost has a salary?” Takada’s voice was only barely heard by the Phantom in the rafters, where he was watching her with narrowed eyes. He was beginning to reevaluate her ability to be a nuisance, and he was liking these new managers less and less with every word they spoke.

“We won't be able to pay anything if we don't have a show!” Mikami shouted. The Phantom leaned forward, suddenly much more interested in what was happening below him. This was the moment he'd been waiting for, what he'd been counting on by irritating the hell out of Misa Amane for the past three years. He was practically holding his breath as the new manager buried his face in his hands and yelled, “we shall be refunding a full house because we have no lead and no back up!”

“There is a stand in.” Lawliet said. The Phantom’s heart was thudding in his chest. The opera populations fell silent once again, everyone looking at Lawliet curiously. While the managers looked hopeful, the rest were looking as if their ballet teacher had lost his mind. Everyone was aware of the fact that Misa refused to allow for a stand in, and the fact that he told them there was one was very confusing. Lawliet allowed the ghost of a smirk to cross his face as he held his hand out to the dancers. “Near.”

The pale boy frowned, stepping forward slowly. Linda, who had been hanging on to him because of her panic over the Phantom, loosened her grip to allow him to walk downstage. Placing his hand in Lawliet’s, Near stood straighter, his posture a perfect mimicry of Misa’s as leading role.

“A chorus boy?” Mikami scoffed, while Takada merely raised her eyebrow and said, “A boy take Amane’s spot?”

“Don't be fooled.” Lawliet glanced out of the corner of his eye. “I've heard him before. His voice would be perfect for the role. And there wouldn't be a single member of the audience who would know that Near is a male when he's singing, not by his voice and certainly not by his physical state if we manage the costuming right.” Near, the Phantom could see, wasn't phased at all by the praise Lawliet was giving him. It wasn't from doubt of his own abilities; he'd more than assured the boy that he had a hard earned talent that needed to be taken care of and cultivated. More than confident in his singing voice,, he could tell even from so far above the pale boy that his protégé was trying to find his teacher’s endgame.

It took very little prompting for him to open his mouth and begin singing. Near started off just a bit shyly, not used to singing in front of anyone with the exception of his teacher; still, he gained confidence as he continued, closing his eyes and stepping away from what little comfort Lawliet provided. His voice was clear and smooth, a much better fit to the role than Misa’s off tune screeching. The Phantom kept his eyes on him, pride running through his body at the impressed look the managers were sharing. Near had as good as gotten the part on his own.

Opening night was sure to be wonderful.

XxX

He stormed around in the underground, fury coursing through him in unrelenting waves.

Opening night, and his new managers were already disobeying his explicit orders. They'd sold his normal seat to the Vicomte, the new patron of the Opera House. As promised, the audience was filled with people and so he was not able to witness his protégé’s very first public performance. He hadn't even known beforehand, as he'd doubled Near’s practice time and was completely dedicated to helping him be an instant success. He hadn't even managed to do anything other than send Lawliet a letter detailing his instructions for praising Near after the show, and so not even the ballet teacher had been able to give him warning.

The echo of Near’s voice carried down to him, just hitting that one note he’d had trouble with beforehand; it sounded, to his trained ear even under two stories, as though he'd managed to finally hit it properly. Scowling despite his pride, the Phantom slammed a clenched fist into the wall. Pain radiated up from the spot where flesh connected with stone, but he paid it no mind at all. This had been his night to shine through Near, to be able to watch the boy from his box seat and know that nothing would have been possible if not for him. To know Near was on that stage because of his plans, and that he was performing the way he was because of his tutelage. To watch with pride as the boy took his personal training and flew with it, soaring high above the common folk and enchanting them with his voice alone.

This night had been meant for him!

Takada and Mikami would pay for this, he vowed darkly as applause thundered its way down to him. Somehow, in some way, they would pay for this terrible error they've made only a few weeks into their management position. He wanted, for the very first time in his life, to resort to actual violence; damaging and long lasting, something that would match the grievance they gave him. This was not an opportunity that would be repeated for him. Even with Near gaining Misa’s spot, there would be no more first opening that would surprise the crowd with this boy’s voice. This was a one time experience, and he had missed it due to his new managers’ inability to follow simple instructions.

And yet something held him back. Maybe it was Lawliet’s stern words, echoing now in his mind from the dark recesses of his memory.

Maybe it was Near’s influence, the quiet eyes and solemn expression coming to the forefront of his mind and calming him slightly. No, he mused as he drew his injured hand to his chest, it wouldn't do to damage them too much. They were idiots, yes, but they were trainable and still too new to the workings of the Opera House. The rumor mill had done its job, and whispers of their managers had been added to it; while normally he despised gaining information in such a way, he'd gotten what he needed to know. Mikami had run a seamstress shop before this, apparently, and Takada only had the fact that Whammy adopted her as a child going for her. They were hardly management material, but having different managers not picked by the old man would be worse than these two.

As the intermission went on, for it had to be intermission around this time, he found his mind forming a different plan. One that wouldn't lead to any harm, at least not physically. Maybe financially, but only for a short while, not too long. And though it would give them cause for panic and alarm, it was something he'd been debating on for quite some time now; after all, Near’s hair was beginning to look more and more tempting each time they met. Perhaps it was time to reveal the man behind the wall, to look Near in the eye and have the boy looking back at him. He paused just a bit in his walking, turning back to glance behind him, and decided. Spinning on his heel, he strode back as quickly as he could so as to head back to his home.

After all, he had to make it much more presentable for his plan to work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which reunions and firsts happen.

He’d just put the last torch into place, just a little ways down the hall from the entryway he'd built, when he heard the door open from behind him. He spun around to see Lawliet with Near at his side; the teacher had Near’s left hand in his own, his right arm wrapped around the pale boy and drawing him close to his side. As requested, Near had already changed out of the uncomfortable costume dress and into his normal pajamas. His socked feet were silent against the cold stone, contrasting just a bit with the soft sound of Lawliet’s bare skin as they walked together. The rancorous sound of the theater celebrating an opening night well done was almost headache inducing, though the noise was muffled drastically as Lawliet shut the door behind them.

“What am I doing here, L?” Near’s voice was quiet and subdued; not from uncertainty or fear, but more to try and preserve it as much as he could considering how much he'd used it tonight. From behind the mirror door, the Phantom felt proud once again to see his lessons being taken seriously.

“This is a big night for you.” Lawliet replied easily. “I thought perhaps, considering your personality, the attention it would draw would be too much for you. I know the others wanted to celebrate with you, but you're not the type to party the way the rest of the opera population does.” He steered Near into a chair and allowed the boy to drop gracefully into it. When he did, Lawliet went around the desk and sat down as well. They made quite a sight to the Phantom, who smiled fondly at the image they presented: both in chairs, with their knees drawn up to their chests and hands resting on the top. The only difference was that Near had only one knee pulled up, while Lawliet balanced precariously on his toes.

“I am proud of my accomplishments tonight.” Near said finally. His fingers, rather than being in his hair, were picking at something in his lap that was hidden from sight by his knee. “And I am pleased that our opening night was perfect. Perhaps- - -”

What he'd been about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. Lawliet tiled his head, dark eyes flickering to the door uncertainly. Near’s entire head turned, tilting down just a bit in curiosity. Slowly, the Phantom watched as Lawliet stood and landed softly on the floor; his hands at his sides, the ballet teacher strode to the door and, after only a split second hesitation, pulled it open.

The Vicomte was standing there, a bouquet of flowers in his hands and an embarrassed flush on his face. He was dressed more finely tonight than he had been when he was introduce, and it made him look younger than he had the few weeks beforehand. His hair was shadowed by the light, and at this distance the Phantom could see that it was cut into the same length his own was. His eyes were eager and alight, jumping from Lawliet in front of him to Near seated in the room.

“Ah, Vicomte.” Lawliet drawled. “How unsurprising to see you at our opening. Did you enjoy the performance?”

“I did.” He said breathlessly. The Phantom watched with slight distaste as his hands tightened around the bouquet. Near didn't move; not only had he learned his lesson with the last time he'd tried to get this man’s attention, but the Phantom had had words with him as well. Near was in training, not only with Lawliet as a danseur, but with him as well. He had no time for frivolous romances at the moment, not with Vicomtes or anything of the sort. Near had agreed instantly with no disagreement, and they hadn't spoken of it again.

Now Near sat hunched over in Lawliet’s office, watching the man with disinterest as the new patron beamed.

“Did you have a reason for coming here, sir?” Lawliet asked, effectively drawing the man’s attention back to him. The Vicomte straightened just a bit, trying to make himself look less like an overeager puppy. In the Phantom’s opinion, it worked only slightly.

“I've come to see Nathan, of course.” His voice was slightly subdued in the face of what the Phantom could only assume was Lawliet’s blank stare. “To congratulate him on a show well done.”

“There he sits.” Lawliet informed him a bit shortly. “Say your piece and then continue on. I'm sure there are many others the Vicomte would need to see, and many who would want to see him as well. It wouldn't do to have rumors flying around so soon after he'd agreed to be our Opera House’s new patron, wouldn't you say?” The Vicomte straightened a bit as well, his smile dimming further.

“I would speak to him in private.” He admitted. “Rumors have no real lasting damage. This is important.”

“Don't do it.” The Phantom murmured, pressing his fingertips against the double sided glass. His voice was quiet, faint, but Near’s head snapped to the side instantly. He straightened now, slowly placing his foot on the floor and turning to look at the mirror. The Phantom saw, as he turned, red and green against the white; Lawliet had given Near his roses. The deep red one was nestled firmly in his white curls, the pure white one was the thing he'd been playing with while talking to Lawliet. Warmth flooded his body, seeing Near accept the roses he'd been left from him.

The door slammed shut, breaking the trance they seemed to have found themselves in. Near turned to the door again, the Phantom doing the same, to find Lawliet gone and the Vicomte striding over. His wide grin was back, and he dropped to his knees when he reached Near.

“Hello, little Snow.” He said quietly. Near reached out with slightly trembling fingers, his eyes darting every now and then to the mirror. The Vicomte didn't notice, taking the proffered hand with the his own, the one not holding the bouquet. “I had wondered where you'd run off to. Is this where you've been the whole time?”

“You haven't been looking hard.” Near responded. The Phantom felt something cold slide down his stomach when Near didn't take his hand back instantly; the Vicomte had begun running his fingers over the knuckles, barely paying the movement any kind of attention. “I'd sent letters, you know. They always came back. Unopened, unread. I figured that once I was out of sight, you grew tired of me.”

“I know, and I'm sorry.” He sighed heavily, and the Phantom felt the leather of his gloves squeak as he clenched his fists. He didn't dare make a sound as the Vicomte spoke of his parents, didn't dare try to even listen as they began recounting childhood stories together. All he could do was focus on the boy’s hand on Near’s, the subtle ways Near was softening around him. It would figure, he mused darkly, that just as he decided to finally show himself to his protégée, something would come along to ruin it.

“No, I can't.” Near’s voice was monotone and firm, unyielding in his conviction. It was his certainty in his denial that brought the Phantom to focus on the happenings unfolding in front of him.

“Come on, Nathan, one night off surely couldn't hurt!” The Vicomte was laughing, drawing Near to his feet and spinning him around as best as he could in Lawliet’s office. “It wouldn't even be for very long, I swear to it. Come out with me, celebrate! This is your success as much as the Opera’s!”

“I cannot, and I will not go with you.” Near stopped the madness, pulling away from the Vicomte easily. His eyes darted to the mirror, watching his own reflection as he put his hand up and began twirling his hair. “My teacher is very strict, and he will not abide foolishness like this. I must keep my concentration if this success is to continue beyond tonight.”

“Do not be stubborn, Nathan.” The Vicomte said firmly. His smile was still in place; to the Phantom, it looked smarmy and smug, as if the boy was used to getting his way merely because of his title and the amount of money he had. Near’s eyes moved slowly from the mirror to meet the Vicomte’s as he said, “one night. I'll ready the carriage and we’ll be back before you know it.” Near’s continued protests fell on deaf ears as he strode away, closing the door behind him.

The Phantom watched, trembling with a surprised rage and violence. He'd never felt this fury before, not even earlier tonight when he realized what an opportunity was lost to him. The situation that had unfolded before him was setting his teeth on edge in an uncomfortable way. Never mind the poor timing the Vicomte had in inviting Near out as he planned to reveal himself. Never mind Near abiding by his rules, set in place so that the boy couldn't get to him. Never mind that he viewed Near as his, his protégée and just his alone.

Near had told him no. Near had refused his advances, had told the boy point blank that he didn't want to go out with him, and the Vicomte had ignored his wishes in favor of his own. Near was staring at the closed door, hair still twirling, as if trying to comprehend what was happening. It took a few precious seconds to register; then he shuffled quietly over to the door, his hand outstretched towards the doorknob.

“Insolent boy, this slave of fashion,” the Phantom growled loudly, slamming his hand against the wall. Near jumped, flipping around and staring with wide eyes at the mirror. Fear clouded his eyes, but it didn't seem to be for himself; instead, his gaze shot to the door to Lawliet’s office and back again. His dark eyes seemed to read, ‘is that wise?’, but he was too furious to manage volume control or anything else. His voice was loud and thunderous, surely able to be heard outside the vicinity of the office. “Basking in your glory!”

“You…”

“Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor,” he continued onward, throwing his mask off and against the other side of the wall; it clattered loudly but the material held strong and did not break,, “sharing in my triumph!” Near held his hand out placatingly, stepping towards the center of the room. His back straightened of his own volition, and he came to a stop in the center of the room, putting his other hand on the top of the chair. His white rose was threaded through his fingers; he'd not taken the bouquet left by the Vicomte. It lay on the floor, ignored completely by its intended recipient.

“Angel I hear you.” He breathed just loud enough to be heard. It calmed him just enough to let him slid to a sitting position, staring dully at the white mask as Near’s words registered.. “Speak; I'll listen. Stay by my side, guide me.” The Phantom scoffed, not at his words, but at the title he was suddenly given. What was this ‘angel’ business? In all their time together, Near had only ever referred to him as ‘teacher’. As the boy should; he was nothing even close to resembling an angel, and he had never been anything to Near but a teacher first and a close confidant second.

Near seemed to hear his thoughts; a smirk crossed his face, though he bowed his head and bent his left knee in a mockery of a bow when he finished. His hair hid his eyes, but his miniature smirk broadcasted his mischievousness loud and clear. The Phantom had his head pressed against the back of the wall, watching fondly as the young danseur tried to appease his fury. “Angel, my soul was weak; forgive me. Enter at last, Master.”

Master. He rolled the title on his tongue, trying it out in the safety of the darkness. Master. Well, it certainly was a lot better than ‘Angel’.

He waited a moment before answering; it gave Near time to straighten, begin twirling his hair again, and start looking faintly nervous. As if he thought that his teacher, his unknown friend, would abandon him over a silly thing like the Vicomte being far too persistent in his unwelcomed advances. What a foolish little boy, he thought to himself as he stood silently and retrieved his mask. So intelligent, so gifted, and yet still so young and naïve.

“Flattering child, you shall know me.” He cooed softly, fixing the mask to his face and smoothing his hair and his clothes. Near’s tense frame relaxed, his dark eyes widening just a bit to show his interest. His own stomach turned into a mess of tangles and knots, but his voice betrayed none of his inner turmoil. He had decided that tonight would be the night to reveal himself, and so reveal himself he shall. “See why in shadows I hide. Look at your face in the mirror; I am there inside!”

Near’s breath seemed to have caught in his chest; his eyes as wide as they've ever been, he stepped forward in careful and measured steps. The Phantom lost himself in those dark eyes, pressing the lever just beside the mirror to lower the two way glass. Their eyes met, for the first time according to the pale boy in motion. Near stopped halfway to the mirror, his breath coming in stutters that were visible even through his oversized pajama shirt. Though his hand was still lost in his hair, it was trembling just the slightest bit.

His mouth was moving, he was saying something, they both were, but it was washed away in static and panic; it was the first time in nearly sixteen years that anyone aside from Lawliet had seen him as completely as this. Shadows and rumors were how he'd been seen by everyone in the Opera House, and it was nerve-wracking to be seen openly. It was with a slight hesitation, only a slight one, that he held his hand out palm up to the boy in white. He felt as though he were trembling as much as Near, but his hand felt steady and sure.

There was a faint knocking in the background of their connection, one that they both ignored as Near stepped ever further towards him. He lifted the trembling hand from his white hair, placing it into the outstretched hand as soon as it was within reach. The Phantom tightened his hand on it; the pressure it put on his was softer than he'd been expecting, and only just a little bit smaller than his own.

He drew Near toward him, letting him step carefully into the tunnel with him. As he pressed the lever again, allowing the mirror to slide back into place, the torches lit up again. Down the hall, as if by magic, they illuminated the path he wanted to take Near. The boy was staring up at him, inky black eyes taking in the sight of the Phantom, his teacher, for the very first time.

He'd only slightly unwillingly adorned his white mask, the porcelain digging into his skin as uncomfortably as he knew it would. Still, it was perfect for making good first impressions, which he'd wanted to do to impress Near. His clothes, while not as expensive or as nice as the Vicomte’s, were fitting enough: a dark shirt, soft and cool to the touch, was catered to him and him alone. His pants were the same way, only just the tiniest bit baggy so that he would be able to move freely. He had decided on wearing his heavy cape, and now he was glad for it; Near was shivering just the slightest bit, most likely a combination of nerves and the very real chill that permeated the dark air around them. He swiftly removed his cloak and draped it around Near, wrapping his free arm around the boy’s waist for good measure.

As they walked down the hallway, Near didn't take his eyes off of him. His hand was still in the Phantom’s, but he seemed to not notice anything around him. He was vaguely aware that he was saying something still, they both were, but the words between them were like ripples in the distance. Lower and lower they went together, down the twisting hallways of the catacombs beneath the opera house. He knew his way around, even mesmerized as he was now; Near would be lost if he tried to navigate his way around, something that pleased him just the slightest bit.

All too soon, they reached the top of the staircase that led to his home. Swiftly, he stepped in front of Near, blocking the boy’s view of the living space beneath them. His hands framed the boy’s face, tracing soft patterns over the porcelain cheeks that made him flutter his dark eyes closed. He looked almost like a doll that was sleeping, with his ethereal white glow in the low lighting of the torches and his flawless skin.

“I have brought you,” he started quietly, “to the seat of sweet music’s throne.” Near’s eyes opened slowly. The dazed look was mostly gone from his eyes, and they focused on him with the boy’s normal intelligence. He smiled fondly, one of his gloved hands slipping into the snowy hair. Briefly he lamented his decision to wear gloves; he couldn't feel how soft Near’s hair was through the leather. “To this kingdom where all must pay homage to music.”

“I….”

“You have come here.” He continued, “for one purpose and one alone.” His free hand pressed gently against the pale throat; even through his glove, he could feel Near’s heart racing. It made his own heart race, and he could barely speak around the lump in his throat. It made his voice deeper and the drop in pitch made Near shiver. “From the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me to serve me, to sing, for my music.” He stepped closer, moving just the slightest to the side. Near’s eyes followed him for a second, then shot straight to the living space.

He'd moved all the music sheets so that instead of covering all available space, they were littering the piano and its bench. Candles were on the coffee table and the stairs leading down to his space. The door to his bedroom was firmly shut, but the hall leading to the kitchen was also lit up. There was another door that was opened, but a sheer cloth covered the entrance in the illusion of privacy. The candlelight was giving a haunting glow, making his home look much more magical than it normally was. He was quite proud of how he'd managed in so short a time; he'd almost thought he'd miss his chance at having the boy come with him.

“What is this place?” Near breathed into the air. He wasn't cold anymore, but he didn't move to take the Phantom’s cloak off. His eyes roamed the exposed space before turning up to the Phantom’s face again. Uncharacteristically, a sort of wonder and awe filled his face, and he blinked rapidly.

Instead of answering, the Phantom took Near’s face in his hands again.

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation.” The Phantom trailed his finger’s over Near’s face, the boy’s eyes trained on him with intensity. His breath nearly caught as his voice dropped just a bit, “helpless to resist the notes I write, for I compose the music of the night.” Near’s mouth silently repeated his own words, committing them to memory as if they were something he would be tested on later. His heart fluttered again, and he took Near’s hand in his own. Placing it on the crook of his elbow, the Phantom began leading Near down the stairs to his house.

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor.” Near’s grip was a firm pressure on his elbow, their pace slow as the boy shuffled his way down the cold stairs. His gaze was locked on Near, who'd looked away to examine the room below again. “Hearing is believing, music is deceiving- - -hard as lightening, but soft as candlelight. Dare you trust the music of the night?” His eyes snapped back to his, black fathomless eyes boring right into the Phantom’s. There was a silent answer in those eyes, one that the Phantom couldn't understand despite knowing the boy as well as he did. A shiver raced down his back, and he reached out with his free hand once they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth, and the truth isn't what you want to see.” His fingers traced the area around Near’s eyes, and the boy closed them obediently. He instantly missed the sight of them. “In the dark it is easy to pretend that the truth is what it ought to be.”

“And what truth would you have me believe?” Near asked quietly. The Phantom drew away just the slightest bit, enough so that Near would open his eyes and face him. The dark eyes moved to the mask, his hand reaching out to touch it. His fingertips had just barely brushed the surface when the Phantom trapped his hand against it, keeping it in place.his hands were gentle but firm, and Near’s eyes locked again on his own. A tiny furrow marred his brow, and the Phantom reached out to brush it away.

“Softly, deftly music shall caress you.” He told him instead, drawing Near to the center of the room. Near’s attention was taken from him then, to explore the surroundings of his new location. His fingers of his free hand, still clutching the rose tightly as if afraid to let it go, were trailing now over the sofa in the room, his eyes taking in the decorations of the walls and the instruments lining the stone. “Let your fantasies unwind in this darkness which you know you cannot fight.”

“The darkness of the music of the night.” He murmured in response, startling the Phantom. Was he accepting him? Excitement rushed through the elder one, who swooped down and lifted Near easily in his arms. He didn't even give Near a chance to cry out in shock, taking a hold of his hand and leading the boy through a vigorous waltz that swept the paler boy off of his feet. They danced around the clutter that still littered his living spaces; even when it was moved around and in a new spot, the Phantom knew well enough how to move in his own home that they never stumbled, not once.

“Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the life you knew before!” He said eagerly, still spinning the boy around. His pace was slowing, though, so that Near was able to keep up with him. He had eyes for nothing but Near, who was gazing back with equal intensity. Slowing, slowing still more until they were just barely spinning, the Phantom leaned down and pressed his forehead against Near’s as best as he could; he was careful to not out too much pressure on Near on the chance that the mask’s edge would make him uncomfortable. “Close your eyes and let music set you free.” His voice dropped to a whisper, longing and hope and adoration filling the space between them. “Only then can you belong to me…”

Near drew away at that, uncertainty in his posture now. His gaze darted to the side of the room, where the stairs were, and the Phantom could see him calculating the distance between where he was now and the safety of Lawliet’s office. Cursing himself just a bit at the unintended pressure he'd put on Near, the Phantom strove to make it better. He brought Near to him again, pressing the boy to his front and holding him gently.

“Touch me, trust me.” Near softened just a bit as they continued their movements, still spinning through the living area and approaching both the hall to the kitchen and the cloth covered doorway. The Phantom caught sight of something white out of the corner of his eye; thinking it was Near’s hair, he buried his nose in the soft strands. “Let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write.”

“The power of the music…” Near’s voice trailed off at the same time his body stiffened completely. The Phantom pulled away from him, Near not moving. Confused, the Phantom followed his gaze to the wall where he was staring and understood immediately; he cursed himself again and again when he realized they'd gotten too close to the hallway to the kitchen area, which also housed another room easily seen into. There were candles still lit, and the door was wide open, and there were drawings, many many many drawings, of nothing but Near. The boy trembled a bit at seeing so many copies of himself, all staring, all in various poses of his life around the opera house.

Near took an unsteady step back, slipped, and fell. The Phantom caught him on reflex before he hit the ground, but the damage had been done. Between the performance, the Vicomte, and his teacher, the drawings had been too much for him. Lowering them both to the floor, the Phantom held Near close to him and sighed. He was warm in his arms, warm and comforting and very much there with him. 

“You alone can make my song take flight.” He cooed quietly against Near’s white curls. His hands were trembling as he took off one of his gloves; with just the slightest hesitation, he ran his now freed hand through the soft white hair on Near’s head. His hair was just as soft as the Phantom had imagined. “Help me make the music of the night…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of debate about adding the songs, but I've ultimately decided to; after all, it was a moment in the middle of 'prima donna' that began the creation of this fic, and not including it would probably be the worst mistake I could make.


	4. Chapter 4

He was sitting at the piano when he heard Near open the door. Pages were littered on the floor around him, his own composition at a standstill as he tried to focus. Lawliet would be expecting this portion from him soon, and he'd had no luck with it in the past. He'd been hoping that having Near with him would help, but he couldn't shake the feeling he'd frightened the boy off when he saw the images of himself plastered to the walls.

“Excuse me.” Near’s voice was soft and quiet, and it hit him like a bullet. He spun around gracefully on the piano bench, planting his feet onto the floor to stop himself so that he could face Near. He was slouched just in front of the door, his hand in his hair. His eyes shot to a clock mounted on the wall- - -a fairly new addition, only three years old and hand crafted by the Phantom himself in order to keep on time with Near’s lessons- - -and then back to the musician. “Would it be wise to have our lesson now?”

“Your lesson?” His eyebrow crawled into his hair and disappeared; the Phantom was reminded almost horribly of Lawliet.

“Yes.” Near said. “I would hope that, even down here in the catacombs, I would be continuing my lessons with my teacher. Unless he has decided otherwise, of course. But as I have currently taken Miss Amane’s role and have plans to stay in that position, I feel it would be prudent to continue my lessons where I left off.”

“No, your lesson shall proceed as planned.” The Phantom spun towards the piano again, gesturing for Near to join him. He didn't hear the boy as he moved, but he felt the warmth of him against his shoulder when Near came to a stop behind him. Cracking his knuckles, the Phantom placed his hands gently on the keys. “We shall surely have an easier time of it now, since there is a piano readily available to use. Let's begin.”

He ran Near through his warm ups, preparing the boy’s voice so that it would hit the notes properly. His voice echoed a bit more in the open cavern, the acoustics down underground much better than in the little alcove they had been using before. The Phantom’s ear was trained on Near’s voice, his fingers flowing easily over the keys with familiarity, but his mind was nowhere on the lesson.

Instead, his focus was on Near’s warmth against his shoulder and back, the way the boy’s breathing was much more noticeable when he was in a much closer proximity, the wavering tones as they worked their way from the lowest Near could hit to the highest note and then back down.

“Straighten up, Near.” He would murmur occasionally, hearing when the pale boy would start slouching again. Or, “deep breath, breathe Near.” The boy never argued or complained, just obediently followed what his teacher told him. From warm ups, they ran through the songs he needed for Hannibal, making certain Near would continue to perform admirably in front of his new crowd. After they had gotten halfway through the opera, they took a break and had a silent lunch between them. Afterwards, they returned to their exercises once more.

The door to his study was shut and locked, the key tied firmly around his neck. Neither one of them made any mention of it.

In the midst of doing an exercise that would help preserve Near’s voice, the clock on the wall chimed seven-thirty; it was time for Near to prepare to go onstage and awe his crowd again. The Phantom led Near to his room again, where a duplicate of his costume hung. It had been painstakingly made by the Phantom himself in the nights leading up to the opening, in order to ensure Near’s stay with him be as long as possible. The boy had opened his wardrobe and stared at it for a long while, not moving or showing any outward reaction to it on his face. Instead, his hand crept into his hair and he shuffled towards the door. His socks, though now slightly damp, continued to make no noise upon the stone beneath them.

“Would you…” Near stopped by his doorway, his free hand on the doorknob to the room. He half-turned his head to the Phantom, who felt his stomach erupt in nerves when one coal eye met his own. He cleared his throat and started over, willing his voice to keep from shaking. “Would you care for some help getting into your costume, Near?”

“No.” Near told him, and disappeared into the room with a final-sounding click.

His heart dropped instantly, landing somewhere around his stomach. Near was unhappy, or else he was uncomfortable, because of the images he'd seen in the study. For the millionth time, the Phantom cursed himself for being so careless as to leave the door unlocked and open so that anyone could see. Lawliet knew of his feelings for Near, and so to see such a sight was never a surprise for the older man. He would only make a note if something new appeared, and those comments were generally a praise of his artistic talents in drawn images instead of just dramatic arts.

But for Near, who was the object of his affections, to come to the realization that there was a body behind the voice of his teacher and that his teacher harbored such strong feelings for him in the same night…it was much too much.

The door opening brought him out of his thoughts, and the Phantom gave Near a warm smile of reassurance when the boy came out into the living area. He didn't return the smile, naturally, but the pale boy’s entire body relaxed just a bit, and he didn't flinch or make any movements when the Phantom drew close to wrap his cloak around him once more to keep him warm. His hand reached out as the Phantom drew away, and the masked man tried hard not to let the joy bubbling in his stomach show too much on his face when Near’s hand came to rest on his arm. Instead, he led him through the living space and down another set of stairs which opened to a giant underground lake. There was a boat tied to a dock, and he gently helped Near make himself comfortable for the ride to the staircase that led to the dressing room.

“You've made quite the labyrinth down here.” Near’s voice came suddenly as they pushed off into the water. The Phantom glanced down at him, then turned his eyes up to ensure their quickest route. The lake was enormous and led to many directions, after all, and he was trying to be sure to get Near to the right place on time. Still, he couldn't help replying; they had not spoken to each other at all, just practiced and practiced until showtime. He'd been waiting for the danseur to speak first, because that would have meant the boy was comfortable enough to speak freely around him as he had before even with his newfound knowledge.

“Many of the tunnels were here already with the building of the opera house.” He informed him quietly. He made sure to never slow their progression, and they were crossing the lake quickly despite its great size; one of the benefits of being who he was meant that his strength had been gathering quickly since he was young, and simple tasks like this never tired or weakened him. “All I've done is expand upon it, and made the passageways connect where I wanted them to. Most of it was done on my own. In other areas, I've had my fair share of help.” Near’s eyes shone in the flickering candlelight, rapt interest locked onto his teacher.

“Is this how you've managed to get around the opera house unseen all these years?” The Phantom’s lips pursed just the slightest bit. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ghost of a smirk cross Near’s face. “I've never heard the Phantom speak, of course. He seemed to avoid doing so in my presence. Yet I cannot help but think he would not abide by more than one person living down here with him in the shadows.”

“No, he wouldn't.” He admitted. “You are very sharp, Near. You always have been. I'm very much surprised that you hadn't noticed before that your teacher and the opera’s Phantom were one and the same.”

“I had my suspicions, naturally.” Near said. “After all, the Phantom always curiously managed to avoid doing anything to harm or hinder myself. And with the treatment of Miss Amane being what it was…”

“You cannot tell me that horrible siren did not deserve whatever she got.” The Phantom slowed the boat just a bit as the dock came into view, careful not to get any of the lake water on Near’s costume. Another flicker of a smile caught his attention, and he tied the boat to the dock as he stepped out of it. Bending down to help Near, he added, “your voice is much preferred to Miss Amane’s, of that I can assure you, little Near.”

“With such a teacher, that was never up for debate.” Near sniffed just the tiniest bit dramatically, taking hold of the Phantom’s arm once more as he got out of the boat. “What was questionable was whether or not Miss Amane would give up the limelight for anyone one else to be able to perform.”

“Well, I ensured she would for you, Near.” They walked swiftly through the halls, the Phantom leading Near carefully around any traps that could be trigger by them. The boy fell quiet at that, his dark eyes turning frontwards as they approached a different hallway than the one they'd gone down the night before. The Phantom felt a stab of irritation at that, though he soothed it down by reminding himself that Near was a quiet individual by nature; he didn't mean to shut him out all the time.

Still, they approached the dressing room where Misa usually changed, to find Lawliet in the doorway trying to usher out panicking managers.

“He will be here, and we shall not have to refund tickets.” Lawliet was sounding just the slightest bit impatient as he placed his hands on Mikami’s shoulders and pushed him out. “Let me get things prepared. Leave, now.”

“L, you can't surely expect- - -” Takada’s protests were cut off by Lawliet grabbing her gently by the arm

“I can, and I shall. Out!” Lawliet pushed them both out and pulled the door behind them. The Phantom held Near close to him, prompting him unnecessarily to keep quiet as the managers and Lawliet walked away. It was nearly half past eight now; Near would be reappearing long enough to do any last minute preparations, perform, and then disappear at the end of the night once more.

“Now, listen carefully.” He said as he opened the mirror in the room. Near was watching him with solemn eyes, waiting for his orders. “Once the performance is over, you must come straight here. I'll be here to get you. We shall descend once more, and I will provide food. We will spend all day tomorrow practicing as well. This is how it will be for the rest of Hannibal, do you understand?”

“I will not celebrate with the opera house?” Near questioned.

“No.” The Phantom shrugged a shoulder as he helped Near out of the passageway. “The opera house is too rowdy for one of your nature, and their drinks will do nothing but bring your voice to ruin. It would be best if you avoid it altogether.” Near raised an eyebrow impassively, and the Phantom sighed just a bit. The boy didn't even have to speak in order to get his way with him; it would bring him to ruin, this trait of Near’s. “If you must insist.” He brought Near’s hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against the boy’s knuckles. Near’s eyes grew wide, and his breath caught in his chest. “You may attend celebrations only once, on the very last performance. One hour only. Agreed?”

“And what of the Vicomte?” Near asked quietly. Irritation flashed through him and he dropped Near’s pale hand gently. The boy slowly brought it back to his side, holding it against his chest.

“You declined before.” He snapped. “Do so again.”

“I cannot continue declining his invitation.” Near reasoned. “Enough times, and he may withdraw his patronage from the opera house.” He growled and ran his hand through his hair, just barely managing to keep his mask in place. Near was beginning to overstep himself, questioning his orders. Had he wanted to go, the previous night when the Vicomte invited him out? Had it only been his word, the one that said Near wasn't allowed any distractions out of practice, that kept him from leaving?

“Do you want to continue being in the spotlight?” He grit out through his teeth. Near seemed to take an involuntary step back, his brow furrowing just the slightest bit in the face of his temper. The Phantom tried to reel it in, but he couldn't get a grip on it. “Do you wish to continue performing, or would you rather be the feed for rumors? Is it your wish to be pulled from the stage just as you've gotten your first taste of it?”

His fingers itched to throw something, and he was tempted to tear his mask from his face and heave it at the wall as he'd done the night before; it was only Near’s barely audible breathing, faster now, that kept his hands from his own face. Near was frightened of him already, because of his uncontrollable temper flaring. He could hear it in Near’s breathing, in the swish of his costume as he took small steps back. It made his hands clench into fists instead, and his body tremble with rage. He wanted to yell, but he'd done his damage enough just with his actions. He didn't need the opera aware of his situation with Near at the same time he was dealing with the issue with the Vicomte.

“Is it, Near?”

“No, sir.” Near’s voice was quiet and unassuming, blank as it always was. There was the slightest tremor to it, though, one he noticed instantly. Without a moment’s hesitation, he strode over to the pale danseur and pulled him into his arms. Near tensed, not knowing what to do as the Phantom approached, and stayed still as the older held him closely.

“Hush, now, little one.” The Phantom cooed. “I would not cause you pain or suffering, you know this.” Near nodded into his shoulder. “I merely wish to see you succeed, that is all. You are my muse to the world, your voice the embodiment of my spirit. We’ve worked too hard and far too long to waste our opportunity now, right?” Near nodded again. His fingers ran, almost against command, through the snow white locks again.

“I will reject the Vicomte’s invitation.” Near said quietly, almost a little bit reluctantly. The Phantom purposefully ignored the reluctance, holding him just a little bit tighter. He would see, the Phantom knew, that this was for his own good. The Vicomte was not the kind of man who would treasure this poor boy as he had, and there was no way a talentless thing like him could ever hope to continue with Near’s lessons. No one, in fact, but the Phantom himself. He would be damned if anyone tried to take Near from him.

XxX

“This is the last straw!” The Vicomte was at Near’s side, holding the boy’s arm in order to prevent him from moving away. The last production of Hannibal had just ended, and though Near had waited his promised hour before making his way to the dressing room in order to meet with the Phantom, he'd been intercepted by the Vicomte as soon as he'd stepped through its doors. The boy had been lying in wait of Near, and the Phantom could only watch with gritted teeth as he tried once again to convince Near to go out with him. Near was looking vaguely perplexed, not seeming to know what to do with the man who'd appeared out of nowhere once he'd closed and locked the door.

“What is the problem?”

“Nathan, do not act the fool.” The Vicomte sighed. “It does not become you. Why have you chosen not to accept my invitations?”

“I've told you.” Near intoned. His dark eyes glanced into the two way mirror where he knew the Phantom was waiting, and his hand crept into his hair unconsciously. The Vicomte intercepted the movement, taking hold of the appendage between his own and forcing Near’s gaze back to him. “My teacher- - -”

“You've been out celebrating with the rest of the opera house.” The Vicomte interrupted. “I know you to be against such frivolities. You haven't even gotten drunk, like the rest of the population. And yet, that is a more acceptable distraction than sharing a dinner with me?”

“I've already retired from the opera’s celebration.” Near said. His voice sounded just the littlest bit helpless, as if what he wanted and what he had to do were two different things. The Phantom watched, helpless, as the Vicomte trailed the back of his hand against Near’s soft, smooth cheek. Near didn't lean into the touch, from what he could see, but nor did he pull away from it either. His lips parted, just the smallest bit, though, and he had that little quirk of a smile beginning in the corner of his mouth.

“One night, little Snow, please.” The Vicomte insisted quietly. “Just the one.”

“No.” The Phantom felt his nerves catch on fire when Near rejected him once again, because something sounded off when he said it; the boy’s eyes darted to the mirror once more and, in an act of pure defiance, he pulled the Vicomte close to whisper in his ear. Whatever he told the boy made his entire face light up, and the Phantom felt fury rush like a flood through his veins. The Vicomte didn't move from his spot as Near crossed the room to where his pajamas lay crumpled on the floor; Near moved behind the dressing room divider and changed to the words spoken by his Vicomte.

The Phantom was helpless to do anything; he didn't want to reveal himself to the Vicomte so soon, if at all, and Near was well aware of this. Instead, he could only observe as Near reappeared, not in his pajamas but in a white button down shirt and black slacks. He'd carefully taken his make up off, his hair freed from the pins holding it back. His feet were freed from the costume shoes, and though socked, he held another pair of white shoes in his hand.

“One hour only.” Near told him sternly. The Vicomte let out a small cheer, taking hold of Near’s arm when the boy offered it to him. He began chattering away almost immediately, but Near wasn't paying him much mind. Instead, his eyes darted over to the mirror; he watched it warily out of the corner of his eyes as he was led away, as if waiting for it to slide to the side and reveal the Phantom. His blank gaze seemed to mock the man hidden in the shadows, and then disappeared altogether when Near faced forward and closed the door behind them.

Immediately, the Phantom raced off. Running through the tunnels, he slid to a stop just by the entrance to the opera house. Holding his breath, even though his heart was racing from exertion, he put one hand against the wall and listened intently. He was worried that perhaps he'd been too slow, or that the final production celebrations would be too loud, but he was wrong on both counts; soon afterwards, he heard Near’s voice speaking, and the Vicomte’s laugh. They stopped for just a moment as Near put on his shoes by the door, but then they were out into the world together. The Phantom waited just a moment more, still holding his breath, until he was sure Near and the Vicomte were away from the opera house.

He turned on his heel and stormed down to Lawliet’s office, not caring who would hear him on his journey. His mood was darkening with each step he took, and by the time he stood behind the two sided mirror, his face was set into a fearsome scowl. There was no one in the office, as was expected, but it took merely ten minutes before the tall man was slipping into the room and closing the door with a note of finality. The Phantom waited for a moment, not knowing for certain if there was anyone outside the door. It was up to Lawliet to let him know; at the moment, he was standing in front of the door with his hand on the doorknob, not moving at all. Then his shoulders dropped into his normal slouch, and he put one hand to the side of his head delicately. Doing a quick about face on his heel, Lawliet strode over to his desk and sat down in his usual manner.

The Phantom hit the lever, hard, and jumped over the edge of the mirror once it was low enough. Stalking dangerously over to the teacher’s desk, he was careful not to slam his hands down. Still, the appendages trembled violently, clearly showing how furious he was in the wake of Near’s departure.

“I had thought,” he growled through clenched teeth, “that we had been in agreement, Lawliet.”

“We are in agreement, Monsieur Le Phantom.” Lawliet said tiredly. “Complete agreement, you know this.”

“Then why was the Vicomte allowed to take Near?” The Phantom just barely managed to keep his voice quiet; his trembling had extended to his entire body, so that he was practically vibrating in front of the ballet teacher. His dark eyes looked up and met his own narrowed ones, and Lawliet shrugged a shoulder in response. The lackluster answer infuriated him even more, and it was only the passing sound of drunken laughter that kept him from slamming his fist against the desk. It wouldn't do to draw unwanted attention to Lawliet at this moment in time, not with him so close to the man. “You promised me- - -.”

“The boy is extremely persistent, and you cannot put all the blame on me.” Lawliet fixed the Phantom with a cold stare. “After all, Near had managed to get into the dressing room. I saw him to it, personally. How, then, was he able to leave the opera house with his protective Phantom hovering over him?”

With a growl, the Phantom threw himself into a chair opposite of Lawliet. Crossing his arms, he sat in the chair and glowered at the door.

Outside, the celebrations continued. And even further, Near was in the company of the Vicomte, just the man alone, and that thought rankled him more than he thought possible. He slammed his hand on the arm of the chair, his free one curling into a fist at his lips. Lawliet was watching him warily, his hands busying themselves with a teacup and his sugar cubes.

“If I may,” he started; when the teacher paused, the Phantom grunted to prove he was listening, and Lawliet continued, “perhaps if you sat down and explained yourself to Near, the boy would heed your words. After all, he's a smart boy; if he's certain as to where your interests lie, he would no doubt be more agreeable to obeying your words.” Lawliet let himself smile slightly, his head ducking down. “After all, you haven't seen him outside your lessons. He takes what you say and what you think very seriously. He won't even let a sigh of your existence pass his lips, not even to the only teacher in the opera house he trusts.”

“You think he's testing me.” The Phantom said dully. Lawliet made a slight face, shrugging as he stacked the cubes on the lip of the cup.

“I cannot say for certain.” Lawliet denied instantly. His fingers never wavered from their task with the sugar cubes, but the Phantom knew better than to assume the man’s attention was not fully on him. The ballet teacher, who knew Near best second only to himself, was as confounded by the danseur’s actions as he was. While the Phantom pouted, however, Lawliet’s mind went into an overdrive of trying to figure out the puzzle before him. “It would be quite unlike Near, after all. Yet I cannot say whether he truly wants the attention of the Vicomte or not. He agreed to go out, yes, but look how long it took for him to agree to do so.”

“It was my word- - -”

“Nonsense.” Lawliet pinned him with a dark look. “Near is quite his own person. He listens to what you say, yes. He cares quite a lot about what you think of him, of course. And he would like to continue his training with you. Not just because of the fame it's suddenly attracting him, but because he genuinely enjoys them. He obeys your words because he wants to, not because he's afraid of whatever consequences you'll dole out.” The Phantom snorted, and Lawliet tilted his head in response. “That's what happens when you shield him from the Phantom, sir. And now you have this.” His eyes were fixed on the Phantom, who was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Lawliet gestured towards the lowered mirror. “What will you do now?”

“Near said an hour at most.” He said quietly. “I will…speak to him then. See what he is thinking. And forbid him from seeing Monsieur Le Vicomte again.”

“You must say more than that.” Lawliet reprimanded calmly.

“We’ll see, Lawliet.” The Phantom rose, reaching over the desk to put his hand on the teacher’s shoulder. He squeezed once, then withdrew instantly. Throwing his cloak over his head, the Phantom stepped into the mirror again, pressing the lever once again. Waving once over his shoulder, he ignored Lawliet’s parting in favor of racing down the hidden corridors that led to his home.

XxX

“Farewell, then, Monsieur.” The Vicomte’s answer was muffled by Near closing the door firmly. Leaning against it just a bit, the Phantom watched as the boy closed his eyes and sighed. Rubbing at his temples, Near crossed the room to the dressing partition, shedding his clothes as he did so. The Phantom waited until he was firmly hidden away before pressing the lever quietly, allowing the mirror to slide away.

“Have you been standing there all night?” Near asked from behind the partition. His voice was muffled just a little bit as he pulled his pajama shirt on, and the Phantom didn't bother to answer such an obvious question. Instead, he waited until Near reappeared before holding his arm out in silence. Raising his eyebrow, Near shuffled over and took his arm.

The Phantom led Near down into his catacombs again, his mind racing over what he had planned for the boy. If Near noticed his tense posture and his unwillingness to speak, he didn't show it; instead, the danseur seemed to gracefully move beside him as they walked. He practiced what dance steps he could while retaining his hold on the Phantom’s arm, humming ‘Think of Me’ under his breath as he did so.

The Phantom’s heart throbbed in pain. Not only had Near gone out with the Vicomte, but the new managers had not kept his seat open for him. The reminder of the fact that he missed his protégé’s first opera performances aggravated him, and as they got to the boat he shot Near a dark glower. The boy’s humming faltered, then stopped completely. They rode together across the lake in silence, one that lasted until they were seated across one another at the table.

“Are you angry with me?” Near asked quietly. He wasn't hungry, which was unsurprising; the both of them had cups of hot chocolate instead, Near’s favorite drink. The Phantom dipped his finger into the steaming liquid, poking at the marshmallow that floated on the top. The liquid chocolate warned his finger but didn't burn it, and he made a noise of distaste as he wiped the appendage on a napkin.

Even with the pinch of cinnamon Near insisted on for nostalgic reasons, he couldn't stand hot chocolate.

“I am very upset with you.” He said finally. Lawliet had told him to speak to Near, and he'd thought of doing nothing else the entire way back. Now that he had the opportunity to do so, he found it much harder than he'd anticipated. He wasn't quite sure what to say, or how to say it. Near’s dark eyes, questioning and curious, weren't helping him form words any faster.

“Is it because I went out with the Vicomte?” A snarl crossed his face before he could stop it, and Near smirked with the corner of his mouth.

“I told you to tell him no, Near.” The boy picked up the hot chocolate and shrugged with one shoulder, taking a deep drink as he did so. The Phantom slammed his hand down on the table, glaring at the boy across from him. “I'm very serious, Nathan.” The use of his true name had Near dropping the mug from his face, looking at his secret teacher with wide eyes. “If he invites you out again, you will say no. I will have no more of this fluttering around.”

“The Vicomte is- - -”

“No more, Nathan, or else you will find yourself in very regrettable circumstances.” Near shifted once, looking around the kitchen wearily for the first time since he’d woken up underground. The Phantom watched his eyes linger on the closed door, words coming unbidden to his lips and yet dying before they reached the air. Sighing heavily, the Phantom stood and upended his cup of hot chocolate into the sink; Near followed suit, though he drank the last of it before placing the ceramic into the basin.

“May I retire now?” He asked quietly.

“Yes.” The Phantom said. His voice was subdued, and he couldn't help but think that this was not what Lawliet meant when he told him to talk with Near. He reached out as Near turned, but curled his hand away before he could touch Near’s shoulder. Turning to the dishes, he said, “Good night, Near.”

The quiet closing of the bedroom door was his only answer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which secrets are revealed.

Four days pass and the Phantom could feel the tension between them as if it were a solid wall, physical and yet intangible.

Near had reappeared the next morning and they'd begun lessons again. It seemed that it was all they did now. Once seven-thirty hit, Near made an aborted move towards the boat as usual, one he stopped once he realized that the Phantom was heading to the kitchen; he had begun dinner preparations, which wasn't something he’d done while Hannibal was running. Following his teacher, they ate in silence. Then, while the Phantom was cleaning, Near disappeared into his room for the remainder of the night. The Phantom felt the silence between them like a shroud, but had no way of breaking it with his own words.

And so it continued for the next week.

Aside from lessons, where the Phantom gave notes and suggestions, they did not speak to each other at all. Near seemed to have resigned himself to living underground, and before the Phantom’s eyes, grew even paler and more listless than before. His voice rang out only during their practice, but for the most part, Near was silent. He moved as a ghost, silent even in the cavern where everything echoed, and the Phantom didn't have the faintest idea on how to fix the situation.

“I told you to talk to him,” Lawliet said crossly when he reappeared after two weeks of such treatment. The ballet teacher was looking frazzled, his hair sticking up in more directions than usual. The Phantom was sitting in his usual seat across from the desk, his arms crossed. He'd only meant to come find out what the next opera was and when it would be, and had ended up having a conversation with Lawliet. It was their first in months, it felt like; Lawliet had his hands full with Mikami and Takada’s inability to run the opera house efficiently or with any form of proving they could obey orders, and the Phantom was focused solely on Near now that he had him physically by his side.

“I tried!” He said in protest. Lawliet shook his head and the Phantom scowled. “It came out wrong, ok? But I tried! Now he won't talk to me at all, and I don't know what to do!”

“Figure it out, and quickly.” Lawliet said. He rubbed his hand over his eyes, the motion turning into rubbing at his temples. He looked tired and worn, well over his thirty-odd years of age, and the Phantom felt slight shame for putting the ballet teacher through this. If he'd moved faster, put his plan into motion sooner, perhaps Lawliet wouldn't be looking this way; Lord knew the Phantom got away with much more when Whammy had been manager. “I don't know what I'm to do about Mikami and Takada. They are intent on either locating Near or pleading for Misa to return.”

“No!” The Phantom stood up, panic racing through his veins. He'd worked hard on putting Near in the spotlight. Misa Amane’s return would put him back in his plans, and that wasn't something either he or Near wanted; assuming, of course, that Near wanted to continue being in the spotlight. After all, the limelight meant giving up his precious Vicomte, and Near hadn't given any indication that he was willing to give the boy up.

Lawliet shot him a look, and the Phantom nodded his assent before disappearing into the two way mirror.

As he returned to his home, his mind was in disarray. He walked down to the catacombs without paying attention, his body moving automatically around the traps he'd set along the way.

Instead, he was focused on what to say to Near, or how to fix the situation. When he'd left, Near had been asleep; it was nearing seven in the morning now, but it had been much later when he'd first seen Lawliet. He wasn't sure if the boy was up yet. If he was, then perhaps he would make Near a breakfast. If not, the Phantom decided to work on his opera for Lawliet.

As he approached his home, he listened carefully for any sound that Near was up and active; when he heard none, the Phantom swept down the stairs and into his living space. Knowing for certain now that Near wasn't up yet, he strode over to his piano by his room. Taking a seat, he cracked his knuckles and then placed his fingers down on the keys.

Skipping his warm ups, the Phantom jumped right into the area of his opera that was giving him the most trouble. At the moment, it was his Don Juan singing to his lover, trying to convince him to cast aside his bridges. He'd gotten it along marginally with Near at his side, but it was still giving him trouble and he wasn't entirely certain on how to end the last song of the opera. He hadn't expected the song to give him this much grief, and the Phantom lost himself to time as he grew more and more irritated with it. His playing grew louder and fiercer, though it didn't help him any more than before.

A door opening in the lull of his playing caught his attention, and the Phantom whirled around on his bench to find Near staring at him from his bedroom door. There was a silent staring contest from across the space, neither one of them moving or willing to give into the other.

Then the Phantom twisted on his chair again, turning back to his piano. Seeing Near awake, after his conversation with Lawliet, brought a wave of anger and irritation at the boy. He would give him the day off to do as the danseur pleased, but the Phantom was not up for lessons today. He hoped his body language would have been picked up on; Near was currently in the habit of shying away from him if the pale boy didn't have to be close to him, and would not approach the Phantom on his own.

So when his fingers trailed across his shoulder, the Phantom nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard Near’s approach, and he'd assumed that Near had gone into the kitchen to make himself a snack or some food. He glanced at the pale boy out of the corner of his eye, gauging what he was doing as Near stared at him unashamedly. When the boy didn't move, the Phantom began playing again; this time, the melody that came from the piano was soothing and quiet, one that he had created long ago when he was still young.

As the sound echoed in the cavern, the Phantom felt his eyes slip shut out of habit; his fingers playing automatically, he focused instead on putting his emotions into the keys of the piano. He let himself get distracted by the music and the feeling of Near’s soft fingertips trailing their way across his face.

His fingers slammed against the keys suddenly, his eyes flying open as the discordant noise echoed loudly in the cavern. He’d worn his white mask to speak with Lawliet, and hadn't taken it off to switch to his black cloth one. Near had, slowly and so subtly that he hadn't noticed what was happening until it was too late, slipped his fingers under the porcelain and pulled the mask off.

He stumbled back instantly, and was knocked off of his feet as the Phantom stood so abruptly the chair was thrown from him. Near stared up at him with wide eyes, horror and fear plain on his face. The emotions on his face, shown more freely than normal, only served to enrage him even more. His fury twisted his face, and he knew the disfigurement on his face was more obvious.

“Damn you!” He roared. Near flinched in the face of his anger, putting his hand up as a sign of submission. The Phantom slammed his hands down on the piano keys, sending another cacophony of noise through the cavern. “You little prying Pandora! You little demon, is this what you wanted to see?” He turned and glowered, not hiding his face at all from the danseur.

“No, I- - -” Near’s voice wavered, his frightened gaze never leaving his teacher. The Phantom ran his hand over his face; even through his gloves, he could feel the scars and disfigurements that decorated the side his face.

“Curse you, you little lying Delilah!” Near was taking shuddering breaths, moving hesitantly backwards away from the Phantom. He snarled and darted forward; he fell to his knees over Near’s legs, bringing his face inches away from the danseur’s. The pale boy froze, and the Phantom took his stillness as an invitation to grab hold of his arms. “You little viper. Now you cannot ever be free!” He hissed. His head lowered, slowly, until his forehead was placed against Near’s shoulder. Near wasn't still, his shoulders heaving with every breath he took, which meant the Phantom’s head was jostled with every movement. It was oddly soothing, and his voice lowered as he spoke. “Damn you, curse you...”

Just as abruptly, he felt drained. His anger washed away, leaving him numb to the world outside of the two of them. The Phantom sighed quietly, and loosened his grip on Near’s arms; he hadn't realized how tight his grip was, and Near hadn't made a noise of protest, but he was strong. He knew that, even if only faintly, he'd bruised Near. Regret wasn't coming to him just yet, but it would later.

“Sir…” Near whispered.

“Stranger than you dreamt it,” he said softly, “can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me?” Near’s body was stiff, and trembled from the adrenaline from what happened before. He didn't make a sound, though his breathing evened out a little with the release of his arms. The Phantom leaned his deformed cheek against Near’s soft one, and felt the boy cringe away. “This loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven.”

Near didn't move or make a sound.

“My little one,” the Phantom drew away and pressed the back of his finger against Near’s cheek. His eyes were still wide and unblinking, but the fear was fading away to hide behind his usual blank face. “Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see. To find the man behind the monster in this repulsive carcass.” He slid away, backing away from Near and giving his protégée some space. “Who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty.”

Near’s mouth dropped open slightly, but he didn't say a word. Taking one deep, shuddering breath, the pale danseur lifted a trembling hand and held out the mask again. The Phantom reached out slowly, and Near flinched away almost instantly. It caused the Phantom to draw back just as quickly, and regret coiled in his stomach as Near’s eyes dropped to the ground. He bent down to his knees again, keeping mind to stay off of Near, and reached out to take the mask. Placing it firmly on his face, the Phantom stood and held his hand out.

“Come, Near.” He said softly. Near’s hand wasn't trembling as visibly, but once it was in his own, he could feel it in his hand. His touch was hesitant, unwilling, but Near put his hand in his anyway. The Phantom pulled Near to his feet, and began leading him to the lake again. “We must be going.”

“Where are we going?” Near asked softly. The Phantom could barely hear the words, and the regret he knew would come hung heavy in his heart as well as his stomach.

“There are two fools running my theater who miss you.” He said as an answer. “It's high time you were returned to them.”

“As you command, sir.” Near’s voice was gone after that, and they walked through the tunnels in silence. Near kept pace on his own, drawing into himself and away from the Phantom’s touch. They arrived quickly at the boy’s dressing room, and as he helped Near out of the mirror, he said one last piece.

“Do not try and find your way down on your own, little one. I have many traps set, and they were only deactivated while you were to be roaming the hallways.” He ignored Near’s flinching as he brought a pale hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to the palm. “I would be devastated to lose you.”

Near didn't say anything in response, just tilted his head curiously and studied him with his dark eyes. The Phantom lingered as long as he dared, but the combination of irritated voices outside the door and Near’s eyes landing on his mask made his courage vanish, and so he turned and fled down the hall; halfway down, he slid to a stop and began patting himself down until he found what he was looking for: parchment paper and a quill.

Reaching into a pocket on his cloak, the Phantom absentmindedly threw powder above his head; it lit the torch above him, giving him light to see by. His cloak was one of his own making, and he'd seen hidden pockets upon pockets into it. It was with ease that he navigated said pockets, pulling out a tiny inkwell and beginning his notes.

‘To Lawliet,’ he began one, and detailed the events that happened with Near that led him to being found in the prima donna’s dressing room. He left nothing out, not even his shameful response to the boy’s innocent curiosity, and placed the letter on the floor for the ink to dry as much as it could. The next letters he penned to the managers, beginning one with ‘Mr. Mikami,’ and starting the other with ‘Miss Takada,’. Though his irritation with them was plain, the Phantom tried to be as passive about it as he could be. To Mikami, he reminded him of his salary, which neither had attempted to pay though the date had come and gone; he cheerfully added that for the upcoming month’s salary, it would be doubled because of it.

For Takada, he congratulated her on the success of their first opera as managers and informed her, politely, that under no circumstances were they to hire one Misa Amane again. He'd already written to Amane the day before, telling her not to return to the theater for she’d been replaced by Near.

Once all three letters were written, he stood and made his way to Lawliet’s office. It was empty, as he thought it would be, and he was careful to place the letter on the desk. That taken care of, he headed towards the manager’s office. This was a little trickier, but he was saved by the fact that both managers were gone from it. Each letter went on their respective desks, and he'd barely had enough time to vanish before he heard the door open.

Giving pause so that he wouldn't be heard, the Phantom listened carefully as his letter was received; he heard Mikami’s voice curse after a few silent moments, and then the door opened once more.

“L!” He yelled, slamming the door shut. The Phantom grinned at that, and began to make his way away from the office; the door opened once more, the footsteps lighter and just a bit quicker than before. Takada had just come into the office.

The Phantom heard her find her letter; she cursed, voice softer and quieter than Mikami’s, and she sat down in the chair. He could almost picture her rubbing at her temples, but there was no way for him to check. The entrance to the office was behind a painting, since the Phantom never actually spoke to Whammy before the man retired, and so he had to settle for hearing their reactions.

After a moment, Takada got up and headed towards the door. She didn't slam it like Mikami did, but the sound of her footsteps made it clear that she wanted to.

His job finished, the Phantom turned down to the catacombs once more; he resolved to focus only on his opera, in order to keep the frightened look on Near’s face from his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

The Phantom was sliding through the hallways behind the opera, not going anywhere in particular, when a sudden horrendous screech pierced through the air. The sound familiar and knocking the Phantom for a loop, he stopped somewhere beside the balcony to the ballroom of the opera house. It was an odd spot; the ballroom was connected to the entryway of the opera house itself and when it had been built, the designer neglected to connect two pieces of wall together fully. As a result, the Phantom could carefully monitor the comings and goings of the opera’s population and its patrons, yet they had no way of knowing he was there. It had been useful in the past, and he was glad to be making use of it again.

Misa Amane was storming into the ballroom now, her face twisted into a mask of fury. Kira was trailing obediently behind her, looking almost bored. Takada and Mikami, who had been discussing the letters from the Phantom as they walked, had stopped on the stairway in order to stare incredulously at her as she stomped up to them.

“What is the meaning of this!” She shrieked, her question more a demand. Mikami looked to Takada helplessly, but the woman held her ground and simply raised an eyebrow in the face of the blonde’s temper tantrum.

“The meaning of what, Miss Amane?” She asked coolly.

“This!” Misa shook a parchment out, then held it in front of her face. “‘Mistress Amane, I am more than gleeful to announce that, following one Nathan Rivers’ introductory performance in our last production of ‘Hannibal’, you are no longer under contract at Whammy’s Opera House. In simplest terms, madam, you have been replaced. I bid you a good day, Your Obedient Servant, Monsieur le Phantom.’” Misa nearly threw the letter on the ground, looking furious. Her voice had been shaking in anger as she read, and now her eyes blazed with that same passion.

The Phantom could almost appreciate the look; after all, Misa Amane had passion about the theater, once, and she had been very good from what he could remember. But then she became too accustomed to fame and the spoils that came from being the star of the opera, and her art suffered. It was one thing he swore would never happen to Near, not if it was something he could avoid.

And he'd missed what had happened; suddenly the Vicomte had arrived, looking more furious than Misa.

“I demand you tell me where Nathan is!” He was yelling. His face was red, and the lighting inside the opera house was doing something strange to his hair; he moved one way and it was bathed in gold, his head tilted the other and was a fiery crimson. His hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed in anger.

“We aren't sure- - -” Takada was saying, but the Vicomte was having none of it; he hefted up a vase of flowers from a side table and hurled it at the wall. The vase shattered, splashing water and flowers everywhere, the sound making Misa scream again and step back into Kira. Even Takada took a step back, nearly walking straight into Mikami’s shoulder.

“What do you mean you aren't sure?” The Vicomte yelled. The Phantom was taken aback by the furious tone and volume of his voice. It was so unlike the man in his previous sightings; he was nearly a different person in his anger, and all the phantom could think about was how Near managed to attract two people with fiery tempers to him. The boy was so calm and stoic, he mused as the Vicomte shouted abuse at the managers, perhaps that's why they were drawn to him. It would figure that whomever would be attracted to Near would be his complete opposite in personality.

They were all shouting loudly at one another about their letters, each angered about the contents of them. The Vicomte seemed to believe that the managers were hiding Near for themselves, unwilling to believe in the Phantom of the Opera and arguing with Mikami. Misa was screeching at Takada, who simply closed her eyes against the blonde’s voice and rubbed at her temples.

All fighting ceased when Lawliet appeared, Linda following close behind him. He took a moment to observe the fighting, and approached once there seemed to be a lull in it.

“Lawliet.” Mikami had never sounded more relieved to see the ballet teacher. Lawliet regarded him coolly for a moment, not saying a word. Linda was clinging to his back, looking frightened at the very sight of the Vicomte. “Any news?”

“I have a note.” He said quietly; all four of them groaned, Takada even burying her face in her hands at the mention of the paper. Mikami made to grab it, but Lawliet kept it gracefully out of his hands as he cleared his throat and read, “for the managers: you two have been given many opportunities to run my theater properly, and you have ignored them all. I shall give you one final chance.”

“Who does this person think they are!” The Vicomte exploded. Lawliet shot him a stern look, and he retreated. The managers looked irritated as well, though they had better sense then to interrupt Lawliet.

“I have returned Near to you. I would ask that, in the upcoming production of our Il Muto, you will cast him as the Countess. If you simply must hire Miss Amane back, I would ask that she be given the role of the Pageboy.”

“The insolence!” Misa cried immediately, her bottom lip trembling. Kira placed a soothing hand on her shoulder, and she leaned into it as much as he would allow. Over her shoulder, he shot the letter a venomous look, one that made its way to the managers.

“If you need a reason to do so, I only ask that you compare Near’s talent to the screeching of Miss Amane’s. Now, as this is your last chance, I have high expectations that you will follow my instructions. If not, you will find yourselves regretting that final decision immensely. I remain your obedient servant, Monsieur Le Phantom.”

“This is absurd!” Misa stomped her foot. “Near, why is it all about Near!” Kira released her shoulder as she whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at the Vicomte. Her face was rosy with anger, her eyes glinting and her voice lined with warning. “I bet you were the one who wrote the letters!”

“Excuse me?” The Vicomte shouted back.

“It has to have been you!” Misa yelled. “Near wasn't missing, his lover took him after the finale and now he's pushing Near to take my spot because he finds the opera!”

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!” The Vicomte crossed his arms and glowered. “I wouldn't dare kidnap Nathan, and my continued patronage to the opera house doesn't have anything to do with him!”

“You liar!” Misa made to slap him, but Lawliet caught her arm quickly. She shot him a betrayed look and yanked her hand away, turning so that her nose was in the air.

“Nathan’s back.” The Victome seemed to remember, and he turned to Lawliet looking nearly breathless. “Can you take me to him? I want to see him.”

“I thought it best that he was alone for the moment.” Lawliet said sternly.

“He needs rest.” Linda added, the first she’d spoken so far. “He looked really shaken up. Well, as shaken as he can look.”

“Quiet, Linda.” Lawliet snapped, the damage was done. The Vicomte looked murderous, and his voice had gotten much louder; it was now echoing off of the walls surrounding them, and even the Phantom cringed away from the opening.

“I demand to see Nathan. Take me to him now!”

“You're in no position to be making demands like this, Vicomte.” Lawliet was saying calmly. “Near needs his rest, because we will be putting on Il Muto soon and if he is to play the Countess- - -.”

“I've had enough!” Misa stormed away, Kira and the rest of the group watching as she shouted abuse at the theater, the managers, Lawliet, and the Phantom on her way out. There was a moment of semi-silence, with only her shrieks in the background, until Kira spoke up.

“Far be it from me to tell you two how to do your jobs.” He said smoothly. His voice was calm compared to Misa’s, a cool ocean breeze compared to her violent thunderstorm, but the undercurrent of a threat was heard as he spoke. “But my last performance was out of a grudging respect to Whammy and the work of the opera house.” His gaze was sharp and calculating as he turned to Mikami and Takada. “My wife and I are a packaged deal. I will not perform if she does not. And she will not be in this opera if she is not given the title role.”

“You cannot honestly expect us to put her as the Countess!” Takada sighed and rubbed her temples. She seemed to do that a lot, the Phantom noted. She really wasn't suited for managerial work, was she? “This opera ghost has a point. Near would be a much better fit than she.” She said the words as if they were vile, her agreement with the Phantom’s assessment of his prodigy, but she said it.

“Be that as it may.” Kira shrugged. “You can afford to replace Misa, you have Near as her understudy. But, much like my wife before Whammy retired, I have none. As easy as it was to replace her, will you find it so easy to do the same for me?”

“You would leave Whammy’s to follow your wife?” Mikami sounded vaguely horrified at the prospect, and it rose to cover his face when Kira shrugged almost helplessly.

“As previously stated, I will not perform without my wife.” Kira shrugged a shoulder. “Do what you will with the information. But who will keep this theater running; the ghost, or its managers?” He strode after his wife, and Takada and Mikami looked at each other in his wake.

“It is prudent to listen to the Phantom.” Lawliet offered quietly.

“Miss Amane, wait!” Takada cried, walking briskly after the retreating performers. Mikami followed her suit; Lawliet groaned, because the Vicomte turned to him instead of going after Misa and Kira.

“This opera ghost truly exists?” He asked. “Nathan spoke of some sort of Angel.”

“I have duties to attend to.” Lawliet said as a means of escape. The Phantom, torn, followed the ballet teacher and Linda as they headed back down to the man’s office. The Vicomte followed after him and the Phantom, torn between wanting to following the managers and going for Lawliet, hesitated long enough to hear parts of the muted conversation from the entryway.

With a snarl covering his face at the insistence of hiring Misa Amane for the Countess, the Phantom tore after Lawliet. The twist of the hallway brought him simultaneously between the backstage of the theater and the stairway to one of his more modest basement entrances; it was also over the head of the Vicomte, who was heading…down, as if he would find his way around anywhere in the semi-dark.

That brought the Phantom short, and he stopped to hear the man’s words as he muttered to himself.

“Orders!” He was grumbling. “Warnings, and lunatic demands!” The Phantom followed overhead as he descended, amusement fading more as the Vicomte shook his head and said, “I must see these demands are rejected!”

Furious now, the Phantom turned heel and grabbed at one of his rope pulleys, pulling himself so that he was lurking in the open space above the stage. The managers and Misa had come out as well, all talking amongst themselves.

“Who'd believe,” Takada and Mikami said loudly; their voices sounded contemplative and vaguely suspicious, as if they themselves weren't sure of their good fortune, “a diva, happy to relieve a chorus boy who's gone and slept with our patron.”

“He and that soubrette, entwined in love’s duet.” Kira let out a revulsed shudder that made Misa laugh, though her husband looked anything but pleased. “Although they try to hide, they've acted on the side.”

He slunk silently along the ceiling, eyes narrowed hatefully at the gossiping mangers that dared to spread falsehoods about Near. The boy hadn't been entwined in any love duet they were thinking of, and he most certainly had not been anywhere even remotely close to the Vicomte. He stalked the invisible walkway, moving easily around the ropes that held up the chandelier.

On the stage, their voices carried easily and he heard them clearly, watching as the singers and dancers and stage hands filled the stage with their presence. There were quite a bit of people, more than anyone would have thought an opera house would hold.

“You'd never get away with all this in a play,” Lawliet said boredly. Near was following behind him, his dark eyes unfocused and staring ahead at nothing. He didn't seem to register that half the opera house was against him; once he was on the stage facing the house, his eyes darted upwards.

“But if it's loudly sung and in a foreign tongue,” the managers countered, “it's just the sort of story audiences adore, in fact, the perfect opera!” Misa strode to the center of the stage, standing right next to Near and putting a hand on his shoulder. Near didn't register the touch, still searching the ceiling, but the Phantom didn't miss the condescending way Misa glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

Near’s eyes passed over his hiding spot; once, twice, and on the third time, the Phantom stepped forward just minutely. The disturbance in the shadows caught Near’s attention, and the fourth time he looked, his eyes lit up on the Phantom. There was a burning curiosity in those eyes, one that hadn't been dampened as much as he'd thought with his own outburst. Without meaning to, the Phantom felt his lips form the words that were being said onstage. He kept Near’s gaze with his own, making it clear to the younger boy that he alone was singing directly to Near.

“Prima donna,” the Phantom accompanied this with a small half-bow, “the world is at your feet! A nation waits and how it hates to be cheated.” Near’s eyes widened just slightly, a pink color dusting the top of his cheeks at the intense way the Phantom was watching him. The Phantom smiled minutely, concentration on pouring his emotion to the boy. “Light up the stage with that age old rapport.” Near inclined his head to the side subtly, tilting it towards where Misa was standing next to him. The Phantom’s eyes didn't stray from Near’s, though his hands tightened into fists. “Sing, prima donna, once more…”

Once more…he spun on his heel, disappearing into the shadows and the secret entryway that would lead to his catacombs. It was one of his more dangerous routes, filled with traps, but he knew them as well as the back of his hand.

He had a plan.

XxX

Opening night was unfolding as well as he could have hoped.

In the weeks of rehearsals leading up to Il Muto’s opening, he'd been careful to avoid getting in the way of anything. He hadn't gone to see Near or even do their lessons; part of that was the plotting to make sure his plan was perfect, and part of it was the shame that still lingered whenever he thought of how he'd lost his temper against the boy. Near had his own schedule to uphold, and after the first two attempts at waiting for the Phantom to continue his lessons, Near had abandoned them to the rigorous dancing that Lawliet had for him. It was part of a series of unfortunate consequence that allowed for the Phantom to hear of Near’s accomplishments second-hand through Lawliet or whomever happened to be speaking of him, and to se Near for a few precious seconds as he slept on, unaware.

Another was Misa’s new habit of strutting around the theater as if she owned the place again. In the first week of rehearsals, she moved as if in terror of his acting out again. Once she had a few days of peace, she began growing bolder and bolder. If he'd thought her unbearable before, Misa Amane was now worse than insufferable; it was taking every ounce of self control the Phantom had to not drop another backdrop on her during rehearsals, but he would draw from his rather deep well of patience and remind himself of his plan.

Which was going to be going into effect tonight. The stage was set, the actors in their proper places for his plan of revenge, the seats in the audience completely filled as the sold was sold out once more; the Vicomte in the Phantom’s own Box, the managers by his side. Their disrespect would be at an end now, the Phantom was going to ensure it.

It was time.

“Poor fool, he makes me laugh.” Misa sings triumphantly, and as she struggles to hit the notes she needs to in order for the song to work, he lurks in the shadows by the chandelier. He'd watched their rehearsals until his ears felt like they would bleed, and he knew what would happen if she was interrupted; Misa would have one of their many assistants moisturize her throat as if it would help her sing better. Her spray bottle was off to the side, primed and ready to go should she have need for it.

He would ensure she would have need of it.

“Poor fool, he doesn't know.” The chorus provided her back up, and he made his move.

“Did I not instruct,” his voice was booming, loud enough to overpower Misa’s easily; the frightened sounds that came from both audience and stage was more than enough to allow him to continue. He was standing by the chain of the chandelier, using the brightness of the light to hide as well as he did in the shadows. Everyone turned in search of him, but nobody thought to look up. “That Near was to be Countess, and my seat be left open for me?”

“Who goes there?” Misa demanded shrilly.

“The Phantom of the Opera.” Near’s voice was quiet, calm, but it echoed into the theater and made the audience mutter amongst themselves. His hand moved upwards of its own volition, twirling in his white hair and mussing up the hairstyle it was in. He was making a show of looking around for the Phantom as well, but his gaze kept darting upwards to the chandelier as if he knew.

“Be silent!” Misa’s voice trembled in fright, but she had her pride; the Phantom watched as she clamped her arm around Near’s shoulders, less as a sign of comfort and more so she could cover his mouth with her hand. Her eyes were wide and her head darted from side to side, searching. “Your part is mute, you little brat, you don't say a word!”

“You would dare.” The Phantom mused quietly. He eyed the audience with distaste; the opera had sold out, meaning the seats below the chandelier were full. The chain holding it up was within reach, and so he reached out and grabbed it. It took a few moments, but soon the chandelier was swinging enough for the audience to take notice.

Action happened quickly then; the audience directly below the chandelier and in the surrounding areas screamed and scrambled over each other in an attempt to get out. He watched them for a second, but he didn't linger; now that he'd given his position away, there was no reason for him to stay. The Phantom slid through the door that lead to the catwalk, closing it quietly behind him.

Footsteps followed behind him, much quicker than he'd anticipated. Frowning, the Phantom turned around just in time to see Light behind him. The stage hand looked utterly surprised, as if he hadn’t actually expected to find anyone at all, and he slowed to a stop right in the middle of the catwalk. They stared at each other for a moment while Takada’s voice echoed, trying to soothe the frightened audience members.

“I'm surprised you actually exist.” Light said finally, his voice oddly quiet. The Phantom made a curious noise, and the stage hand chanced a step forward; the Phantom took a matching one back. “I expect most of the opera followed your instructions without really expecting you to be real. I know for quite some time, most of them thought it was Lawliet.”

“Lawliet wouldn't dare.” The Phantom said. He debated on saying more, but ultimately decided to trust Light. After all, Lawliet did; surely that meant that the man was somewhat trustworthy, despite his relations. “Lawliet allowed me free reign, but he loves the opera too much to allow himself to lower to my standards, even if he does agree with what I think.”

“Many, I think, agree with you.” Light admitted. “But my brother and his wife are a much more visible threat. Kira is a much needed member of the theater group, even if Misa is not.” The Phantom felt his shoulders tense, and knew by the way Light’s eyes narrowed that the stage hand noticed. Light chanced another step forward. The Phantom didn't move right away, his eyes watching how Light kept his hands by his sides.

“You think I should stop trying to scare Misa away.” Light shrugged his shoulder.

“If only because replacing my brother will be bothersome.” He said. “I don't particularly like Misa, but unless you've been training someone to be an understudy for Kira at the same time you've been tutoring Near, you will actually shut the opera down.”

“That's a fair point.” The Phantom took two steps back. “Are you going to allow me to escape to think it over?”

“I should catch you.” Light told him. His steps were quiet, “Takada and Mikami would be much happier with you out of their hair.”

“Do you think Lawliet would forgive you for turning me in?” Light’s jaw clenched and the Phantom smirked. He had Light torn between the opera and Lawliet, a perfect spot for him to be in. “How about a game?”

“What kind of game?” Light asked.

“You try to catch me.” The Phantom said. “You manage that, and I'll go with you. You can take me so Mikami and Takada, and you can tell Lawliet it was my idea. He’ll believe that. I do like playing games, after all.”

“And if I lose?”

“You will keep my secret.” The Phantom shrugged. “Urge the opera population to follow my rules. Without arousing suspicion, preferably. You may let Lawliet know; he’ll be much happier, I think, if you knew the truth.”

Light thought over these rules for only a second before he launched himself at the Phantom; no doubt, he hoped to take the younger off-guard and end the chase before it began. The Phantom had expected it, though. He grabbed the rail of the catwalk and jumped over it, landing on the metal walkway below. Light pivoted to the side and, after a moment’s hesitation that allowed the Phantom a better head start, followed after him.

They'd missed the commotion below; as he flew down the catwalk over the stage, he saw the ballerinas and danseurs taking the stage. He only allowed himself a brief moment to feel annoyance, but he focused again on Light’s attempt to catch him. The Phantom was almost impressed with Light, truly. The older boy was nearly as agile and quick as the Phantom himself, and had no problem keeping up with him as the Phantom swung and jumped across the tops of the catwalk.

Impressed gave way to irritation quickly, on both sides. Light was consistently one step behind him, locking them in a strange sort of stalemate. The stage hand wasn't getting any closer to catching the Phantom, but neither was the Phantom any closer to getting away from Light. His eyes darted to various escape routes, but he didn't dare risk opening them with Light so close behind; he could avoid his own traps easily, but there was no guarantee that Light was the same way. Lawliet would not be quiet in his disapproval if Light got injured on the Phantom’s behalf, but nor would he be pleased if the Phantom allowed himself to get caught and turned in.

With a growl, the Phantom reached forward and made himself a chance by force: he pulled on a twisted loose rope, tossing it carelessly behind him in the hope of slowing Light down just a bit. He didn't stop to see if it worked, just jumped a bit harder than was necessary and gripped the bottom of the catwalk above their heads. Pulling himself up, the Phantom turned just in time to watch Light attempt the same; he fell short, and the Phantom snatched his hand before he could fall too far.

“Careful…” Light gasped, and reached up with his other hand. The Phantom thought it was to grab him with more strength, but Light bypassed him completely; his hand reached just past his neck to scrabble at something- - -the rope, the Phantom realized, which had managed to get tangled around Light’s neck like a noose.

Panic gripped him; he turned on his side, using his other hand in an attempt to pull Light up onto the catwalk beside him. It had ceased being a silly game they were playing; now, it was a true matter of life and death. He’d spent the last while running and pulling himself up away from Light, and now he was beginning to feel it. His arms trembled, and Light’s did the same.

“Help me!” He said harshly, when he felt Light’s hand slipping. The Phantom had his gloves on, but they were leather and Light’s hand was sweaty from their activity. He tightened his grip, leaning away from the edge in order to give him more leeway. Light was holding his hand tightly, but his other hand was pulling the edge of the rope around his neck so he could breathe without gasping.

“You…” The stagehand said weakly, and the Phantom felt a surge of anger.

“Don't talk!” He snapped. Getting almost laboriously to his feet while ensuring his grip on Light didn't waver, the Phantom reached out and found another rope. He twisted it around his arm, and allowed Light’s weight to pull him forward against the rail. The rope immediately began digging into his flesh, but he ignored it; their chase had done neither of them any favors, and he was putting all his focus into helping Light. “Just pull yourself up, man!”

“I’m sorry…” Light’s voice was weaker now, and the Phantom felt panic thump in his chest beside the anger. Closing his eyes as if that would help him avoid what was unfolding before him.

“Please don't.” He said quietly. “Lawliet…”

Light’s hand slipped.

The Phantom’s heart stopped and cold drenched his body as he watched Light fall gracefully for a few brief moments before jerking to an abrupt stop. The ballerinas all screamed, and chaos in the audience nearly drowned them out. The Phantom stared, wide eyed and horrified for a moment before springing into action; he yanked on the rope, ignoring the renewed shrieks that erupted from Light moving, and yanked his knife out of his pocket. He sawed at the rope, nearly cutting it before he heard the commotion of the other stage hands getting closer.

With a heavy heart and silent apology, the Phantom fled the scene to one of his trap doors; it brought him over backstage, and a sole flash of white gave him pause.

Near stared up at him, his eyes wide and fearful the same way they were when his anger got the better of him. His fingers were buried in his hair, under the wig that had been pinned to his head. From the distance, he looked as well as he could considering, and the Phantom couldn't help letting a tear fall from his eye in Near’s intense gaze. They held each other for a moment before the Vicomte appeared, grabbing a hold of Near and breaking their staring contest. The pale boy turned to him, and the Phantom made his escape before anyone else could spot him.


	7. Chapter 7

He burst out onto the rooftop amongst the snow, his breath coming in great gasps and fogging up the space in front of him. The side of his face covered by his mask was instantly hot, but the uncovered side froze almost too quickly. Numbly, the Phantom put his hand to his face and pulled it away. His glove came away with a single tear, damp and cold against the material on his fingertips.

He was crying.

Without even stopping or hesitating, the Phantom jumped onto the edge of the roof to hide his footprints; it would do him no good to be caught because he was too distressed to hide where he went. The snow made the stone just that tiniest bit slippery, but his feet were sure and lead him to where he wanted to go without even a hint that they would falter.

Ducking underneath the statue of a horse galloping, the Phantom used his cloak to hide himself beneath the base by the roof. With one knee to his chest and the other foot dangling off the roof, he felt no more peace outdoors than he did inside. Since he was seated, he could feel himself trembling a little too violently; he didn't think it was from the cold air at all. He pulled the hood of his cloak up, drawing it more firmly around his shoulders as if it would ward off his shivers.

Down below, he watched without truly seeing as the opera audience filled the streets. They were still screaming, pushing each other out of the way in their haste to get away. Distantly he watched them, feeling disconnected from the entire world.

What were they even panicking about? He wondered as he trembled. They didn't know Light, didn't know anything about him. They didn't care about him at all. What right did they have to be screaming and crying so pathetically? He would bet all the masks in the world, all the instruments and cloaks, that why would never have stooped themselves so low as to even say hello to Light as they passed him on the street.

A breath tore through his chest when the door burst open again, but he made no effort to move. If Lawliet wanted to talk with him, the ballet teacher would have to come to the Phantom.

He wanted to laugh and sob harder at the same time. Lawliet would not come to him, of this he was certain. The opera would blame the Phantom for Light’s death, and whether or not Lawliet believed that was irrelevant. Light had been Lawliet’s dearest and truest friend, the only one the ballet teacher had openly claimed in front of the theater populations. He’d always spoken highly of Light, of his kindness and honesty; the Phantom had always had the feeling that Lawliet’s feelings ran deeper than he claimed, but the man was stubborn and set in his ways. He refused to acknowledge them, or maybe he didn't every fully understand how to, but it made no difference now. With the slip of his fingers, the Phantom had doomed Light to death.

“There is no Phantom of the Opera!” Near’s voice broke the silence just seconds later, and the Phantom was glad to not have moved; he didn't think he could face Near now, not crying and with the Vicomte at the danseur’s side.

“That is falsehood and you know it!” The Vicomte’s voice came immediately after. “There is someone here, I'm sure of it! You spoke of an Angel, the opera speaks of a Ghost. He has sent me a letter, Nathan, telling me to stop coming to see you after the performances. You can't keep lying to me, Nathan!”

“What do you want me to say?” Near’s voice was loud, much louder than he'd ever been before, and the Phantom knew he was angry. There was so much coloring his voice, fury and denial and sorrow, and though he wasn't the focus of that voice, the Phantom couldn't help but feel it was directed at him.

“The truth is all I ask, Nathan.” There was a panting sound; the both of them had been running, it seemed. There was a passing thought, fleeting, than such breathing couldn't be good on Near’s throat.

“What would you have me tell you?” Near’s voice was no calmer than before, but it was quieter. He seemed to have gotten his breathing under control, though the crunch of snow indicated he was pacing. “Yes, I have been there! To his world of unending night, to a place where daylight dissolves into darkness.”

“His?” The Vicomte questioned.

“Yes,” Near said, ignoring the other boy in favor of his rant, “I've seen him! Can I ever forget that sight? Can I ever escape from that face, one so distorted and deformed it was hardly any face in that unending darkness…”

“Oh, Nathan.” The Vicomte sighed; there was the sound of him following after the danseur, but Near moved away from him before the Vicomte could get any closer.

“Oh, but his voice…” Near sounded so fond and sad, it nearly broke the Phantom’s heart. He pleaded, silently, that the boy would stop talking, but Near didn't seem to hear his silent prayer; he sounded as if he was lost in thought, in memory. “It filled my spirit with a strange and sweet sound. Those nights, there was music on my mind. And through that music, my soul began to soar- - -” he cut himself off with a gasp, and sounded as though he was withdrawing into himself. “And I swear, I heard as I never heard before.”

“I think,” the Vicomte said carefully after a moment of silence, “that what you heard was a dream and nothing more.”

“It was not a dream!” Near twisted in the snow, his voice fierce. “It was real, in the best way.” His breath shuddered. “And his face, all that sorrows of the world. What kind of life has he lived, I wonder, to warrant such a face?”

“A question that can be answered with his capture, I'm sure.” The Vicomte said decisively. Near didn't say anything, and for what felt like a long moment, there was a tense silence. “You would like to see him caught, Nathan, surely?”

“Caught for what?” Near asked carefully.

“The death he’s caused!” The Vicomte exploded. “Your abductions, Nathan, the terror he's put on the opera house!” His footsteps began agitatedly in the snow, as he listed the crimes he thought should be enough to organize a hunt for the Phantom.

“I think God’s Justice is enough.” Near’s voice stopped him in his tracks, and the boy sounded so sure of himself that it wasn't in either of their place to argue. “I know him, sir, much better than you do. I have known him for years upon years. This Phantom, this Angel, whichever you prefer, has been my constant companion since my arrival in this theater for seven very long years. I have never known him to be violent. I do not think he purposefully caused the death of Mr. Yagami.”

“You were his student, Nathan.” The Vicomte snapped impatiently. “He would not raise a hand to you. But you cannot deny that as the Phantom, he has terrorized the opera to drive Whammy into retirement!”

“That was before your time.” Near said quietly. “You do not know what the man retired, or under what circumstances.”

“And I suppose you do?” The Vicomte sighed heavily. “I have no wish to fight you, Nathan, truly. I only wish you had told me of this man beforehand. We could have done something about him before it got to this.”

“What could you have done?” Near’s voice was still quiet. “He would have seen you coming for him. He would continue to evade you, even as you look right at his face.” He sighed, his mind drifting again. The crunching of the snow started again as Near paced, going in circles and more circles around the rooftop. “What a lonely life. What sad eyes, those pleading eyes he wears, the ones that both threaten and adore…”

“Nathan.” The Vicomte matched his tone to Near’s, his voice quiet in a similar matter to the paler boy’s. “Nathan…”

“Nathan…” The Phantom tried the name on his tongue again, so quietly he barely heard his own voice. He didn't like it, no more than the first time he'd tried the name and decided it wasn't fit for his protégé.

Near’s footsteps stopped instantly, as though he heard the Phantom on the wind. He took a step, the crunch sounding in the snow, before something stopped his movements.

“No more talk of darkness.” The Vicomte said quietly. “Forget these wide eyed fears.” Near made a soft noise, and the Phantom withdrew even more. The Vicomte sounded so gentle, so sure with Near, a feat he couldn't have managed for very long with the boy by his side. “I'm here, with you, beside you. To guard you and to guide you.”

“Say,” Near stopped, unsure, but continued onward, “you'll love me every waking moment. Turn my head with talk of summertime…” He stepped back, just once, and the Phantom turned enough to see what was happening behind him. Near was standing in front of the Vicomte, staring up at him with wide eyes and dusty pink cheeks. “Say you need me with you, now and always. Promise me that all you say is true…that's all I'll ask of you.”

“Let me be your shelter,” the Vicomte put his hand on Near’s face, and Near leaned into the touch absently. “You're safe, no one will find you.”

“All I want is freedom.” Near sighed. He leaned forward until his forehead rested against the Vicomte’s chest, and the taller man wrapped his arms around Near’s shoulder’s. The danseur’s voice came out muffled, “and you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me.”

“Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime.” He bent slightly, pressing his forehead against Near’s gently. “Let me lead you from your solitude. Say you want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. That's all I ask of you.”

Near was watching with wide eyes, rapt and attentive. His breath was coming out in fogged gasps, mixing with the Vicomte’s as the older man spoke. The Phantom kept his gaze on Near, waiting as the boy deliberated his answer.

“Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…” He said quietly.

“Say the word and I will follow you.” The Vicomte smiled almost shyly, but Near didn't smile back. He looked vaguely worried, though the look was going away the longer he spent with the Vicomte. “Share each day with me, each night, each morning…”

“Say you love me…” Near said gently, his eyes darting once around the rooftop before landing on the Vicomte looking warmly at him. The taller man ran his hand down Near’s cheek, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead as he did so.

“You know I do.” He said, just as gently. Near's body sagged, just a little bit, leaning into the Vicomte as he did so. His head was cushioned on the Vicomte’s shoulder, and the taller man wrapped his arms around Near’s shoulders again. It muffled his voice, though the Phantom still heard every word as clearly as if Near was standing by his side.

“Love me,” they murmured, “that's all I ask of you.”

The Phantom ducked his head, turning around so that he could face the now empty streets around the theater. Coldness seeped through his body, tears were still falling down his face, but the chill and heartbreak that ran through him had nothing to do with either. For a moment, he contemplated falling, but he instantly decided against it; it would not do for Lawliet to lose both Light and himself in the same night.

“I must go.” Near’s voice sounded suddenly, breaking the silent spell that had settled on the roof. He sounded almost back to normal, and his footsteps began sounding across the snow back towards the door. “They’ll wonder where I am. Come with me- - -”

“Nathan, I love you.” The Vicomte interrupted. Near’s footsteps stopped, but it didn't sound like he turned to face the Vicomte again.

“Order your fine horses,” he said as a reply, “be with them at the door.”

“And soon, you’ll be beside me.” The Vicomte’s footsteps followed Near’s, overtook his and opened the door. Near was hesitant for a moment, before following after him. His footsteps were slower than they had been before, his words coming just a bit slower than they had been.

“You’ll guard me and you'll guide me.” Near’s voice sounded level with the door, and then it was shut qbehind them. The Phantom leaned against the horse, waiting and waiting as if Near would return alone; searching for him, without the Vicomte at his side.

“I gave you my music.” The Phantom breathed slowly, coming to a stand. His legs didn't wobble, his feet didn't slip, though the edge of the rooftop was still covered in snow. His gaze was locked on the ground below, where a carriage was being slowed to a stop. “Made your song take wing. And look, how you've repaid me. Denied me, and betrayed me.”

Near and the Vicomte appeared, both bundled and huddling together as they ran towards the carriage. He felt his anger begin brewing in his heart, contempt breeding hatred for the Vicomte as the man effortlessly lifted Near into the carriage to take him away.

“He was bound to love you, when he heard you sing, little one.” He whispered. The carriage driver waited until the Vicomte had entered and closed the door behind himself; then he urged the horses forward, and the Phantom watched as Near was taken away from the opera house.

And he was furious, fuming and tipping beyond reason. How dare the Vicomte presume to take what wasn't his, to steal Near away from the Phantom? Why would Near allow himself to be blinded by the boy as he gained attention from the crowds en mass, adoration coming from all sides as he climbed his way past Misa Amane?

Why would Light let himself fall?

He stormed away from the edge of the rooftop, snarling. The Phantom wanted to see Lawliet, but he was no longer in the mood to comfort or be comforted; he decided against it. He had no desire to alienate Lawliet at this point in time, and so instead he stalked down to the catacombs that housed him. He would put this anger to use instead, use it to further his own creation.

“You will curse the day you did not do all that I asked of you.” He growled.


	8. Chapter 8

The Phantom was tired.

He was tired and sore, but the chill that had come over him was fading away. Lifting himself from where he was slouched over the table, the Phantom rubbed at his eye and looked around blearily. He caught hold of the blanket slipping off of his shoulder, and stared at it blankly for a moment.

“You shouldn't overwork yourself.” Lawliet’s voice came from behind him, and the Phantom turned to see the man crouched on the sofa behind him. His dark eyes looked duller than before, the bags underneath them much darker than usual. The Phantom felt a twinge of guilt as he stood up, his back cracking all the way up his spine as he did so. Lawliet watched him silently, not saying a word as he sat down beside the ballet teacher.

“I did not hear you come in, Lawliet.” The Phantom said, troubled. He'd never worked so hard that nothing alerted him, and that Lawliet entered so quietly bothered him. He had no idea how long the man sat there, waiting for him to wake, or even how many times the man had come down to see him.

“I'm not surprised.” Lawliet said dryly. “You were quite busy, after all. And even before Near left, you never had time to stop by and talk like you did before.”

“Before, you had…” The Phantom’s words slowed and caught in his throat, and he said no more. Lawliet hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t speak either. They fell into a mostly tense silence until the Phantom spoke again. “I am sorry, about Light. I swear to it, I've not been avoiding you. It's just, with Near gone…”

“And therein lies the heart of the matter.” Lawliet twisted to face the Phantom, his eyes scrutinizing. “Near’s vanished, without word, without notice. Miss Amane is traumatized by the events of Il Muto, and Kira has been very much absent as well.” The Phantom made a dismissive noise, and Lawliet’s eyebrow went up. “Light was their brother, by blood and marriage. It isn't unreasonable to assume- - -.”

“Were they anyone else, I might be inclined to agree with you.” The Phantom mused. “But this is Kira and Misa we speak of. To the public, they mourn. They have to. But in private? I do not think they're too despondent.”

“That’s a grave accusation.” Lawliet said heavily, and the Phantom regretted saying anything at all. Even if Misa and Kira weren't too grief-stricken, it was clear that Lawliet had been despondent enough for the both of them. “And very much beside the point. I wanted to speak of Near.”

“What of him?” The Phantom glowered at the dark, still water, trying to ignore the torrent of feelings in his chest. His normal black clothes bore the weight of Light’s sadness; his heart was heavy, weighing his chest down with anger and hatred and love, such a torrent of emotions that he could barely control himself.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed since Near left. He hadn't left the catacombs, working and destroying and sleeping in random intervals. Parts of his opera had been rewritten, completed, and started; the boat that took them across the lake had been destroyed. His kitchen was a mess, the table overturned and dishes on the floor, though the Phantom had no memory of ever going into the kitchen. His body was sore from where he would fall to sleep in exhaustion, wherever and however he could.

And Lawliet sat beside him; his hand left his knee and reached out, landing gently on the Phantom’s shoulder. He was terrible with verbal comfort, but the ballet teacher did the best that he could.

“When was your last outing?” He asked. The Phantom didn't answer, but Lawliet knew; the man always seemed to have some sort of sixth sense about his ward. The man stood and immediately hunched over. “There's to be a masquerade soon. In several days’ time, I suspect. It would do you good to have a day to relax.”

“I can't relax.” The Phantom buried himself into the blanket, burrowing into the sofa. It was more comfortable than he remembered, and it was making him drowsy. His free hand made a waving motion towards the table he'd been hunched over. “I have to finish my opera. And Near will be at the masquerade, won't he?”

For the first time since he'd come into the Phantom’s life, the man in the shadows had no wish to see the pale danseur.

“I highly doubt he will make an appearance.” Lawliet said. “He hasn't returned to the opera at all. He's not sent word. I don't know how long he plans to avoid the opera house, but I do not believe he'll end it by coming to our party.”

“The Vicomte has to show, does he not?” The Phantom made a face. “I don't want to see him, either. Light was an accident, I swear my life to it. For the Vicomte, I would not be able to make the same promise.”

“I know, little one.” Lawliet said quietly. He placed his hand on the Phantom’s head, and the younger bit back the retort about him not being little anymore. If it would give the instructor some comfort to call him by his old nickname, the Phantom was willing to let it be. “I do not think the Vicomte would come either. You'll be safe amongst the company of the theater, sir.”

“Would it mean much to you if I go?” The Phantom asked. Lawliet didn't say anything, but he let his fingers press gently into the scalp and card through his hair. He was so much better with soothing touches, and the Phantom tilted his head into the movement of the deft fingers. The Phantom sighed and leaned towards Lawliet just a bit more as he said, “I'll attend, I swear to it.”

“Thank you.”

XxX

"You're ready." Lawliet said confidently in an almost fond manner, gingerly placing the half black half white mask on the younger male's face. The days had flown past, and the masquerade was only an hour from starting. The entirety of the opera population performing was required to wear masks that would come off when the masquerade was over; it was the perfect opportunity for the Phantom to blend into the crowd without suspicion, and so Lawliet looked vaguely excited to present the Phantom with a new mask. The design on the porcelain was almost elegant in its own simple way, and the eyes behind it glittered in anticipation.

"You're certain no one will recognize me?" The young man couldn't help but ask, pulling on white gloves that the performers were wearing. His suit was just a little big for him, one that Lawliet had smuggled from the costume department in order to help the Phantom blend in better. Under it, the Phantom wore one of his own silken shirts and pants. It was uncomfortable heat, but the Phantom found he much preferred the heat to the constant itchiness of the suit.

"You'll blend right in." Lawliet assured him, adjusting his young student's jacket once again.

"And Nathan?" He asked softly, touching the black portion of his mask gently, fingertips barely feeling the cool porcelain. Lawliet moved around him, brushing off imaginary dust so that the boy before him didn't see the thinning of his lips. The Phantom knew that Near’s silence was a point of contention for them all, and it took most of him to ask about his young protégé. He couldn't even bring himself to refer to him by his usual nickname, deciding it would be less painful to address him by his given name.

It wasn't.

"He has not sent word- - -we are all under the assumption that he was not to be attending." For a moment, the young man felt guilty for the relief that flooded through him at Lawliet's answer; then he remembered that if Nathan, his little Near, was to be in attendance, the Vicomte would not be far behind. He had no desire to see that man, especially with all that was happening between the three of them. Tonight was a night for celebration, after all- - -he had every intention to enjoy himself.

"All right, Lawliet, I'm ready."

"Good." Lawliet steered him suddenly into a brightly lit room: the front hall. It had been decorated up to the occasion, the chandelier all lit up, the tables filled with food and wine. The doors were open, and the Phantom could see the snow fluttering around. They were in the main entrance hall, and last minute preparations were being put into place for the managers’ arrival.

The performers, where the Phantom was to be blending in, were taking positions on the enormous staircase that led to the upper viewing balconies.

Lawliet placed him personally near the top of the stairs, between two women elegantly dressed in costume; the one on his left with a white porcelain mask and an elegantly matching dress, the one to his right dressed as a red queen with a crimson queen of hearts mask that covered the top portion of her face. Both women smiled at him, though the one in the white dress immediately turned her attention back to the conversation on her left. Out of the corner of his eye, the Phantom could see the little nook he'd hidden in when spying on everyone getting their letters.

"The managers shall be arriving shortly!" Lawliet announced as he took a position at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at all the performers with pride. As he watched Lawliet speak, a fan was placed delicately in his right hand. He shot the 'queen of hearts' woman a grateful look, and she smiled politely back at him, pulling her dress up in a small curtsey. "Break a leg, you lot!" Lawliet called up suddenly, disappearing as the doors opened and the managers stepped in, the performance starting instantly.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!" They descended the steps one at a time, still moving their heads and fans, turning their bodies 90 degrees with each step so whomever came through the door could see both sides of their masks clearly. He moved in with the rest of the group, having watched the rehearsals enough to know what to do and where to step. He couldn't help the smile that started when he sang with the group, copying the movements in time with everyone else's.

"Masquerade! Every face a different shade! Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you!" They moved into a line, performers moving onto the dance floor as each of their masks were named. He watched in awe as they gracefully spun away, the rest of them singing.

"Flash of mauve, splash of puce, fool and king, ghoul and goose, green and black, queen and priest, trace of rouge, face of beast- - -faces!" The female performers listed as many as they could as they either moved around the great hall or took a partner and lead them down the stairs, step by step.

"Take your turn, take a ride on the merry-go-round in an inhuman race!" They all sang, and he couldn't help the excitement that bubbled in his stomach at the idea of joining his 'family' on the floor, spinning around and dancing with everyone in the room.

"Eye of gold, thigh of blue, true is false, who is who? Curl of lip, twirl of gown, ace of hearts, face of clown- - -faces! Drink it in, drink it up till you've drowned in the light, in the sound- - -"

"But who can name the face?" He and his partner sang, grinning at each other before, respectively, jumping from the sixth step and stepping down daintily to reach the floor. He waited for her at the bottom, and when she placed her hand in his they went swirling around the group of performers.

"Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds! Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you!" The sight of all the performers dancing around, the patrons enjoying their party, and the stage hands sneaking away with some of the wine, made him feel out of it- - -drunk and stumbling, but never happier. Aside from being with Near, the Phantom had never felt such joy just from being around others.

"Masquerade! Burning glances, turning heads! Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!" He glanced around, knowing that no one knew him and reveling in the anonymity of the crowd he was dancing with. Freedom was in his dancing, his eyes, and his voice as they continuously switched partners to dance with. He thought only of the movement of the crowd, the feel of a feminine hand in the grasp of his own, and the sounds of the party around him. Near, though usually never far from his mind, was completely gone from his thoughts.

This, exactly, is what Lawliet had meant by taking a break, he thought.

"Masquerade! Seething shadows breathing lies! Masquerade! You can fool any friend who ever knew you!" He couldn't find Lawliet, but couldn't bring himself to care as he bowed to one woman before taking her hand and leading her across the way, all his troubles and worries a thing in the past. He changed partners, another woman taking his hand and spinning towards him easily.

"Masquerade! Leering satyrs, peering eyes! Masquerade! Run and hide, but a face will still pursue you." The colors were blinding as he danced with the people he knew well, but were completely unfamiliar due to the masks. He went from one woman to the next, twirling her outward and then spinning her close to him; hands connecting as he placed his palm on hers, free arm behind his back as they stepped to their rights in sync, before switching hands and partners and repeating. The smile behind his mask, though unnoticeable, was infectious through his eyes and he laughed as he danced- - -never before had he ever felt so normal, so at home, with other people surrounding him. The music around them blared as his current partner, a woman with a golden dress and a matching gold half-mask stumbled a bit, making him instinctively reach out and steady her.

He could see Misa, Kira, Lawliet, Takada, and Mikami coming down a staircase nearby. As he changed partners again, he grinned at Lawliet, making an intricate motion with his hand as Lawliet inclined his head towards him as greeting. He smiled wider behind his own mask, eyes sparkling as he turned his attention back to the woman he was dancing with.

His arm was pulled quite suddenly, and he instinctively turned to follow the red 'queen of hearts' woman who grabbed him to the top of the stairs as they prepared to do a final chorus before joining the party officially. They were laughing and stumbling, he and this woman, and it wasn't until he reached the top of the stairs that he saw them entering.

They were spinning gracefully through the remaining performers who were having too much fun dancing to remember their job, maskless, looking far too happy and content, and he felt frozen at the top of the stairs. He could see Lawliet out of the corner of his eye, trying to gain his attention, but he couldn't bring himself to look at his mentor and caretaker, eyes locked on the happy couple.

The performers seemed to remember what they were there for, and they took positions quickly. He automatically moved in sync with them, eyes still glued to the swirling couple, and prepared to- - -

Then they kissed, in the middle of the dance floor, and he snarled quietly. Pain exploded, having been locked away in the deep recesses of his heart, so sudden and crippling that it hurt. Unfreezing and startling the women beside him, he moved away from the group and vanished through a side door.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!" He changed quickly out of the black tuxedo that Lawliet had found for him, throwing off the ill-fitted suit and instead pulling on the black cloak he'd hidden to the side at Lawliet’s insistence. Feeling once more like the powerful Phantom of the Opera House instead of one of the performers, he stalked out of his hiding spot with a deep glower.

"Masquerade! Every face a different shade! Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you!" Placing a dark crimson mask of his own design on his face while he moved, he sang under his breath as he waited for the perfect moment to intervene.

"Masquerade! Buring glances, turning heads! Masquerade! Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you!" He chose this moment, stepping out of the dark alcove he placed himself in, his movements still as silent as they were quick.

"Masquerade! Grinning yellows, spinning reds! Masquerade! Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you..." They trailed off, some women gasping in horror and surprise as they all noticed him at their own pace. He looked down upon them all, taking each step one at a time, looking at each one of them. Lawliet, he could see, had sighed, glancing furtively at the stunned couple that set him off.

"Why so silent, good Monsieurs?" He snarled quietly, though it echoed clearly through the silent hallway. "Did you think that I had left you for good?" He smirked dangerously behind his mask, and it flashed through his eyes as he approached. The 'queen of hearts' woman took a step back, though she remained in front of the group of girls behind her, glaring firmly at him. She was fiery, but the Phantom couldn't remember ever having noticed her before tonight. "Have you missed me, good monsieurs? I have written you an opera." He held out the completed work, his pride, the one thing he had ever truly struggled with. In between Lawliet’s insistence he join, and him watching the last minute rehearsals, he'd managed to complete his own work. "Here, I bring the finish score. Don Juan Triumphant!" He tossed it carefully at Lawliet, who recovered and caught it easily, holding the bound papers as though they were something precious. He was now on-level with the performers, though most if them had left in oppose to meeting him.

"Fondest greetings to you all. A few instructions just before rehearsal starts..." He trailed off, approaching Misa as she stared up at him, horrified. She was trembling, tears welling up in her brown eyes and streaming down her face. He came as close as he dared, pushing himself past her overbearing perfume to stop a few scant inches from her face. "Miss Amane must be taught to act, not her normal trick of strutting 'round the stage." Misa gasped fearfully, and Light’s brother Kira stood beside her, taking a step towards him as he insulted Misa. He stopped Kira by pinning his eyes on him, though he didn't move away from Misa. "Our Don Juan must gain some weight, it's not healthy in a man of poor Kira's age." Kira flushed, stepping back and pulling his wife with him as the Phantom continued his attack onto Takada and Mikami. "And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts." They looked at each other, genuine fear reflecting in each other’s eyes as he scanned the room for his next victim, his eyes meeting Nathan's and locking. "As for our star, little Nathan Rivers..."

The boy's breath caught in his throat, and he found he didn't have the heart to insult the boy he cared for deeply; his anger at him even vanished, and the Phantom took him in for the first time in what felt like years. He stepped towards him, eyes softening as he did.

"No doubt he'll do his best- - -it's true, his voice is good." Near seemed to glow under his praise, no matter how frightened he seemed to be, and he couldn't help but smile wryly. "He knows, though, should he wish to excel, he has much still to learn." He stopped in front of Near, who was gazing at him with a slightly distant look in his onyx eyes, and once again, he was captivated by the pale beauty of his student. His voice trembled just a bit as he spoke. "If pride will let him return to me, his teacher, his teacher..." They stared at each other, Near wide-eyed and smiling softly, his own hand reaching out. His slightly darker hand met the skin on Near’s cheek, and Near leaned into it unconsciously, still staring wide-eyed at him. He almost smiled, almost, but the something caught his eye- - -a gleaming ring around Near’s neck.

His eyes narrowed, the moment ruined, as his hand shot out and broke the chain around Nathan's neck. Fury roiled through him again, his hand trembling. Everyone gasped in surprise as he held it up, his eyes never leaving Nathan's. "Your chains are still mine, you belong to me!" He hissed angrily before turning away and vanishing in smoke.


	9. Chapter 9

He dropped half a floor and landed hard, but he didn't even notice. He was so mad, he wanted nothing more than to be home and destroy the room he'd created with Near in mind. His little Near was gone, taken by the Vicomte and his riches. Anger made his hands tremble, and he was moving quickly almost as soon as he'd stood.

Not quick enough, though; something grabbed hold of the back of his cape, bringing him to a sudden halt lest he choke himself. Whirling around with a growl, the Phantom yanked the cape away to reveal the Vicomte standing opposite him. The man had a sword in his hand, one that matched with the embroidered shirt and form-fitting black pants he had on. His face was decorated with a scowl as well, and for a moment the two men faced off without moving.

Then the Vicomte lunged forward, his sword drawn and pointed at the Phantom. He ducked under the blade, drawing his hand back and punching him right in the stomach. The other man made a gasping noise as the air rushed out of his lungs, and he stumbled as he turned to keep the Phantom in his sights.

“What do you want?” The Phantom snarled, and the Vicomte spat to the side.

“Leave Nathan alone.” He gasped out. He hardly sounded threatening, the Phantom mused as the Vicomte charged again. He stepped to the side easily, and the Vicomte overbalanced without any interference from his opponent. Whirling around with a growl, he swung his sword out; it forced the Phantom to drop down and, with an idea, he swung his leg out. His heel caught on the Vicomte’s legs, and the other man toppled to the floor with a cry. Clanging echoed as he dropped his sword, and he swore as his head collided with the wall. The Phantom reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt, dragging him down the hall a short way until he got to the room he wanted: the one he'd created without any help from Lawliet, a room of mirrors and heat.

He threw the Vicomte in head first, slamming the door behind him. The Vicomte staggered to his feet, and the Phantom slid into the space between the mirrors. He watched as the Vicomte spun around in confusion, his gaze darting between the mirrors that bore the image of the Phantom; somehow, he'd managed to regain the use of his sword and he had it in his hand once more. He snarled at him, stepping on the lever that activated the heat.

“Listen to me.” He said quietly. His voice was deep and menacing, much more threatening than the Vicomte’s pathetic attempt. “Near is mine. You will not take him from me.”

“Don’t lie to yourself.” The Vicomte snarled. He'd regained his breath, but he was beginning to swelter in the heat. Sweat was gathering at his temples, under his arms, and in his hands. The sword was slipping from his grip, only slightly, though he kept spinning to find the Phantom. “He was terrified of you. The day you returned him, he was pale and shaking, and he wouldn't speak a word to anyone!”

“How little,” the Phantom stalked in a circle, making his voice echo from all around the Vicomte, “how little you know of Near. You claim to love him, yet all you know is the child Near once was.”

The Vicomte let out an angered yell and charged in the direction opposite of where the Phantom was; with his sword, he swung and hit one of the mirrors. It shattered, but did not break. The Phantom was multiplied in that mirror, and he let out a dark laugh as the Vicomte swirled around and charged again. He cracked another mirror, but the glass did not break.

“Where are you?” He screamed. The Vicomte broke another mirror with his sword, his fury growing when the Phantom still didn't come forth. “Fight me like a man, don't hide behind these tricks!” The Phantom watched, feeling almost impassive as the Vicomte smashed another mirror. “Coward!”

“A coward, am I?” The Phantom twisted his mouth cruelly. The Vicomte did not look as fine as he had when he arrived; his outfit was drenched now in sweat, and his hair was mussed. He seemed to have cut his head during his fall, and blood was dripping steadily down the side of his face. “And yet, I am far superior to yourself. At the very least, I would not begin an attack on a man when his back was turned.” The man growled, and the Phantom found himself using restraint to not just kill him then and there. Lawliet would not be happy to have to cover up another death, especially not one of the Opera House’s patrons. “I bid you adieu, Monsieur le Vicomte. Do not try to find me once again. I may not be so kind in a second meeting.” He pressed against a different lever, one that was on the wall this time, and the ceiling above the Vicomte opened up.

“Wait!” The Vicomte snarled, but it was too late; the floor beneath his feet was rising up as well, and he was gone before he was able to let out another word. The Phantom waited a moment and then released the lever, and the floor retracted once again. This time the Vicomte was gone, and the ceiling closed quickly without any interference. Feeling only vaguely satisfied that he'd gotten his point across, the Phantom exited his trap and begin walking down towards the catacombs once again.

He was significantly calmer, he noted, but he was feeling satisfied no longer. His bloodlust was sated for the moment, but his thoughts turned away from the Vicomte quickly. Instead, Near came to mind and with him, the troubling thought of the necklace still in his hand.

The Phantom opened his hand as he walked, staring down at the jewelry he'd stolen from Near. The chain was simple and silver, not worth noting. But it's charm was what gave the Phantom pause, and it was that on which he focused.

The ring was just small enough for Near’s petite hand, there was no doubt. It must have been custom fitted for him; the band was silver and gleamed even in the dim lighting on the wall. There was a magnificent pearl set in the middle, almost as large as the jewels Misa wore. It was framed by almost a dozen diamonds, all tiny in comparison to the pearl. The light reflected off of those as well, almost blinding in the darkness.

An engagement ring, the Phantom mused as he clenched it in his fist once more, for the Vicomte to present to his young love. And for Near to accept…

He swung around a corner and headed the opposite way instead. He needed to speak with Lawliet about this at once.

XxX

His timing, as always, was extremely poor. There was the sound of raised voices coming from Lawliet’s office, but the closer the Phantom got, the more he realized it was a single voice. He wondered who would be belligerent enough to yell at the ballet teacher; his own question was answered as he approached the two way mirror and saw the Vicomte slamming his hands on the table. He hadn't bothered to clean up much before addressing Lawliet. His shirt was sticking to his body and there was still blood running down his face.

“He is a monster, and you know it!” He was shouting as the Phantom stood silently in the background.

"It is only the theater workers who think him a monster or a ghost." Lawliet said dismissively. He had his tea in front of him, and his little pot of sugar cubes. He'd changed, back into his normal pants and long sleeve shirt, and his feet were bare once again. Lawliet was standing, his back turned to the Vicomte as he searched for a sweet to have with his tea. "He isn't dangerous, Vicomte, he is harmless. He's never done anything truly violent, just silly pranks."

"And what happened to Nathan? Or Light? Were those 'harmless, silly pranks'?" Lawliet froze, his back to the Vicomte and his hands holding up a slice of cake that he’d taken from the party earlier. Unbeknownst to the other male, Lawliet's dark eyes darted to the two sided mirror in his office briefly; his eyes looked sad and compassionate all at once, but there was no hint of blame in them. The Phantom felt their weight all the same.

"Light Yagami was nothing more than an accident." He dismissed just as quickly as he had frozen. Lawliet had barely paused for a second, unnoticeable to anyone who had no intimate knowledge of him. His voice had remained carefully blank, and guilt stabbed through the Phantom once more. Lawliet and Light had been so close in age; though he never made any effort to tell Light the delicate story behind the Phantom of the Opera, Lawliet trusted Light very much. His death was still hurting the older man, even a couple of months later, and the Phantom hated the Vicomte much more for mentioning the late Yagami in front of Lawliet. "And he would never hurt Near, not ever."

"Then why was Nathan found in his room, after weeks of disappearance, with bruises on his wrists and terrified?" The Vicomte demanded angrily. Lawliet half-turned at that, an exasperated look on his face.

"Near was not terrified- - -"

"He was detached and unresponsive for four hours!" The Vicomte interrupted loudly, slamming his hand on the desk. "He wouldn't talk to anyone, not even me, he wouldn't let anyone touch him and he was locked in his room for an hour and a half!" The Phantom flushed darkly at the implications that he had hurt his beloved. Near was always detached, it was the way the boy had grown up, and rarely spoke much to begin with. That wasn't a response to what had happened, but there was no way the Vicomte could have known that. He'd only known the happy child, carefree and vibrant and vocal. The violinist's son, pleased to do nothing more than run around to play and spread music with his father. The rest....Near had something on his mind, a problem he was trying to solve. He only acted like that when he had something difficult weighing on his mind and he was trying to figure out what to do about it.

He'd mentioned it to the man before, but now the question arose once again. It was more serious, less mocking, but something that troubled the Phantom all the same. Exactly how little did the Vicomte know his Near? Was he sure he loved the boy at all, or did he love the past version of him that he'd known as a child? Could the Vicomte even tell the difference?

Could Near?

As he thought, Lawliet whirled around fully with all the grace he had as a dancer and sat down on his chair, drawing his knees up and balancing on his toes. His hand placed the cake down on the desk without disturbing his tea or his sugar, though he wasn't paying attention to where he put the plate. He peered at the flushed Vicomte with narrowed eyes.

"Near made a poor choice and received a bad scare." He amended almost carelessly. His tone gave the air that he didn't particularly care, and the Vicomte’s eyes flashed dangerously. But the Phantom could see, by the tense line of Lawliet’s shoulders, that the teacher felt differently. "But no damage was done with malice or intent to harm."

"How can you be sure?" The Vicomte demanded once again. "He's come after me with intent of harm!"

"You came into his playground.” Lawliet pointed at the Vicomte with a fork disapprovingly before putting it on the side of the plate. His hands busied themselves instantly with his tea. “You ignored his rules for running it. You've denied his wishes when it comes to his protégée, as I know for a fact that Near has denied your offers to take him out and you have continued to do so anyway. And, as your latest attack, you have come after him with a sword, ready to defend what you mistakenly assume is yours." Lawliet said coldly. His hands had stopped in action, a sugar cube in one hand and a tea cup in the other. The Phantom, pressed against the mirror as he was, felt warmth take the place of his anger. It seemed that even when things were stacked against him, his mentor and teacher would stand by him anyway. "He has done nothing but retaliate in his own defense. Think about that for a moment."

"What does that have to do with anything?" The Vicomte asked, frustration lacing his words as he sat down. His elbows met his knees, his hands running through his hair in agitation. Blood flaked off and coated his fingers, but he didn't seem to notice. "He-He's a madman. You know he is. Why aren't you stopping him? Why would you let him run free?"

"Simply because he was here first." Lawliet shrugged easily. He wasn't paying much attention to the conversation any more, a sign that it had begun to bore him; instead he was stacking the sugar cubes on his desk on the edge of his teacup. His focus and attention was solely on that, showing how disinterested he really was in the conversation. "And he will be here still, long after you have lost interest in both Near and this opera house, Vicomte. Why would we try and bother to leash him? He will only retaliate in worse ways when you've gone. No, it's better to let him be and follow as he says."

"That is madness!"

"That is tactics, my dear boy." Lawliet corrected. A clock chimed in Lawliet's office, marking the hour as three in the morning. The man in question glanced over to it, studying it out of the corner of his eye. "It is quite late, Vicomte. Surely you'll be returning home soon?"

"Of course." He said stiffly, realizing he'd been dismissed and not being happy with the result of their conversation. The Phantom snickered quietly at the thought. Very rarely was anyone satisfied with the end results of a conversation with Lawliet. When he was younger, he wondered if the man's reclusive personality was to blame. Now, he knew that Lawliet did such a thing purposely with people he didn't like or was annoyed with. "I shall pick up Nathan and we shall go on our way."

"As I said." Lawliet stirred his tea and brought the spoon to his mouth, licking it slowly. "It is quite late. And everyone in the theater has had a trying day, what with the rather interesting end we’ve had for our party."

"What are you suggesting?" The Vicomte bit out.

"Near is already comfortable in bed in his old dormitory." Lawliet shot back. "It would be a ridiculous effort to go to the dormitories, potentially wake the boy and the other dancers so that you may take him on a journey to an unfamiliar room, have him sleep there, and then return him early the next morning for rehearsals. Surely it would be better to leave Near here? You can come visit him again tomorrow."

"If you think," the Vicomte said through gritted teeth, "that I will allow Nathan to stay here for one second more with that crazed madman running around hurting people- - -"

"In the twelve years since Near has been here," Lawliet interrupted, purposefully stressing the nickname. The Vicomte grit his teeth in frustration. "Our Phantom has yet to hurt him. He has yet to pull even the smallest prank on him." He smiled widely, which brought a visible shudder from the Vicomte. "Near will be quite safe, I assure you myself sir. Good night, Vicomte."

"But- - -"

"Good night, Vicomte." Realizing his defeat, the Vicomte muttered his reply and left. As soon as the door closed, the Phantom slipped out of the mirror and took the man's vacated spot. Slipping off his mask, he rubbed the scarred side of his face to soothe it after being treated so roughly. They sat in silence, staring at each other across Lawliet's desk, occasionally glancing at the door.

When footsteps alerted them to the Vicomte's departure, the Phantom stretched out along the chair.

"Lord, what a day." He sighed heavily, though a frown crossed his face when Lawliet said nothing, merely looked at him with an unimpressed expression and a raised eyebrow. "What is it now, Lawliet?"

"I believe I had told you to be wary, Monsieur le Phantom." He said dryly. "Do you remember? That if you were to stay here safely, no one but I must know how you truly exist? Even if Near knew of you, he was not going to say anything to reveal you. What you have done tonight was foolish of you."

"You put me out in front of everyone to enjoy a masquerade!" The Phantom replied. "How is that hiding me from everyone?"

"To enjoy, yes." Lawliet agreed. "But only to enjoy. I had given you a costume to help you blend in with the others of the theater, and you could have spent the night with a bit of music and amusement for once." The insomniac gave him a slightly empathetic look. "After everything that has been going on, I thought you deserved a break for once." The Phantom leaned back, looking to the side petulantly.

"You said he and Near wouldn't come."

"I truly thought they wouldn't." Lawliet shrugged. "Near has made no effort to contact the Opera House. I did not even realize he knew of the ball, though with the Vicomte as our patron it shouldn't have been too hard to figure it out."

The Phantom brought his feet up to the chair, bringing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, his chin resting at the top of his kneecaps. With his shoulders hunched in the way they were, it was easy to see the young man of twenty-one that sat before Lawliet instead of the man that was portrayed by the rumors of the Opera House. He looked vulnerable, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his arms as he thought. The Phantom was well aware that this was not the personality he was supposed to be projecting, but there was nobody here but Lawliet; he could afford to look lost in front of the only man who would take him in.

"I didn't expect it to hurt so much." He said finally, though his voice was quiet and subdued. Lawliet, in the process of balancing sugar cubes once again, paused and glanced up at his charge. "I thought I had been doing so well to move on from Near, to focus again on my music. I had even begun to think that I could meet him again and not terrify him or want for him, and just teach him to use his full potential." They descended into silence again. Lawliet watched as his younger charge ran his fingers through his hair irritably and peer up at him from shadowed eyes. "I hadn't meant to come out like that, but seeing him so close to the Vicomte....they were kissing in front of everyone, Lawliet!"

"Indeed." Lawliet frowned. "I believe I shall have words with Near on the matter tomorrow. Perhaps he will be able to explain his sudden coldness to the Opera House without that blasted man hanging over his shoulder."

“Perhaps.” The Phantom muttered despondently. He buried his face in his knees again; distantly, he heard the scrape of Lawliet’s chair as the man pushed back and stood. After a silent moment, he felt the spidery hand in his hair, making soothing motions with the pads of his fingers against his scalp. It soothed the headache that was building in his head, and the Phantom felt his body lean into the treatment almost without his permission.

“You had been doing well.” Lawliet told him quietly. “I was very proud of you, little one, and how far you'd come.” The Phantom felt tears well up, and before he could stop himself, he was crying quietly into his knees. Lawliet leaned down, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him to his chest. His voice rumbled in his chest, and the Phantom could feel it against the side of his face when the man spoke. “This is not the setback you think it is.”

“I'm sorry, Lawliet.” The ballet teacher made a shushing sound. “I'm so sorry.”


	10. Chapter 10

The Phantom sat on his sofa, listening to the ticking of his clock and staring down at the calendar he'd placed on the table. It was at least a half hour from the twenty-second of January, which was the day Near went to visit with his father. For the past seven years, the Phantom had gone with the younger boy to ensure that he was not as alone as he thought. It brought him much contentment to listen as Near addressed his father, and his pupil always looked much more at peace with the world around him afterwards.

He was debating now on whether he should follow or not. Near was not one to have someone with him to visit with his father; in the past, he'd even rebuffed Lawliet’s offer to go with him, even as a child. Still, the boy seemed to be bending his rules for the Vicomte. Lawliet had kept his promise to speak with Near the following morning, but the boy had kept his silence. The ballet teacher had not given up hope that Near would confide in him, but in the weeks following Near hadn't even made an attempt to talk with his former confidant.

He hadn't left, either. Near gently rebuffed the Vicomte’s efforts to bring him back to the Vicomte’s house, preferring to spend his nights in the opera house dormitories. The Vicomte was a near-constant presence in the opera house now, appearing early in the morning for breakfast and staying long past supper time in useless attempts to coax Near home with him. 

The clock struck midnight. It was officially the twenty-second, and the Phantom was no closer to deciding than he'd been half an hour before. He pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, curled tightly in on himself.

He hadn't made an attempt to contact Near since the masquerade. The ring was burning holes in the pockets of all of his pants, and he couldn't help but feel that with the acceptance of the ring, Near was denying the Phantom. The more he mulled it over, the more it seemed like Near had made the choice he'd wanted. After all, all the Phantom could offer was the life of a prima donna, and the fame and prestige that came with it. The Vicomte could promise that and more, with actual wealth and whatnot.

He had until noon when Near left. The Phantom would decide then; in the meantime, he would check upon the rest of the opera house.

XxX

They were terrified of him, he noted warily, more so than they usually were. The dancers walked in groups, huddled together and looking nervously over their shoulders into the dark areas of the opera house. The musicians were protective of each other and their instruments; stage hands hovered over their younger populations, casting wary glances above them and steering clear of any catwalk that brought them too high unless they were in groups of three. They all cast weary looks at the Vicomte and Near, excluding the two from conversations and seats.

The Phantom was sorely tempted to say something in Near’s defense, but he refused. Part of it, he acknowledged, was the hurt he still felt from Near’s betrayal. They'd worked hard together, trusted each other and helped each other, for seven long years. That the Vicomte could so easily come and sweep all that away…

He didn't dare think on it much.

His other point was, as always, something Lawliet told him just recently: Near was being treated this way now not because of his association with the Vicomte, but because the Phantom had openly acknowledged the boy in front of guests and opera house workers alike.

“You've shown that you have a soft spot, an exception to your rules.” Lawliet explained over tea the night before. “Just as I cannot show favoritism amongst my dancers, due to the fighting it would cause, you are not to have shown favoritism amongst the workers here. Nobody here knew that you were close to Near, and though the Phantom never did anything to him there have been several others who've slipped under your radar. It wasn't suspicious. But now you've acknowledged that he hadn't slipped your mind, and that you've even had a close relationship with him, and they resent that. Near is paying the price for your acknowledgment, because they can't do anything to you. They wouldn't dare.”

“They shouldn't treat him so.” The Phantom growled. “I should- - -”

“Do nothing.” Lawliet interrupted smoothly, “as you have caused enough damage.” The Phantom shot him a betrayed glower, but Lawliet shrugged it off like he always did. A normal person would cower, the Phantom thought viciously, but not Lawliet. He'd seen too many of his tantrums to be afraid of him. The ballet teacher dropped sugar cubes into his cup.

“Has he said anything to you yet?” The Phantom asked quietly.

“You know he hasn't.” Lawliet responded.

And that had been that.

Now, the Phantom watched as Near stretched his body, preparing himself for the stage. The Phantom was settled above stage, in the area where Light had died. It was silly, a bit superstitious; none of the stage hands would go near the area, and for whatever strange reason, it brought the Phantom peace to be seated there. He sat, unbothered and hidden away, as Near went through his dance routine.

It was twenty minutes past, as Near was bending to get some water, that their silence was broken.

“I know you're watching.” Near’s voice was sudden and loud, almost echoing through the theater. The Phantom’s heart raced loudly in his ears, and he’d stopped breathing as if Near could hear him. His throat was too thick for him to say anything; Near hadn't tried to speak with him either since the masquerade.

He assumed the danseur hadn't, anyway.

“You always told me not to speak of you to anyone.” Near continued after a moment; completely unhindered by the Phantom’s lack of response, Near put himself in starting position and began going through his practice routine again. “I'd kept my promise, for the most part. I'd not even spoken to Lawliet about you.”

He spun several times on stage, his head whipping around to his focus point.

“You were the one who chose to reveal yourself.” He continued. “I'm not sure I understand your decision to do so. But I want to- - -”

“Nathan.” Near stopped mid turn; his arms were raised, his feet pointed in two directions and his body twisted partially. He lowered himself into a more natural pose, twisting around to face the Vicomte coming out of stage left. The man was looking around nervously. “Who are you speaking to?”

“Who indeed.” Near intoned. He almost sounded sarcastic, walking over to the Vicomte. The man put his hands on Near’s shoulders, pulling him in and pressing a kiss to his cheek

“I must insist, Nathan.” The Vicomte started, and Near rolled his eyes as he pulled away again. The Vicomte looked put out, but he followed; taking hold of Near’s arm and making the danseur look at him again, the Vicomte continued as if Near hadn't interrupted. “I know that you feel you have to, but I just want you to stay safe.”

“Nothing will happen to me.” Near told him.

“You can't know that, Nathan.” The Vicomte placed a gentle hand on Near’s cheek. “Please. I can't go with you, and neither will anyone else in the opera house.”

“I don't want anyone to come with me.” Near said firmly. “I've gone on my own before. I can do so now. I'm not a child, sir, I can take care of myself.”

“It's not that.” The Vicomte said back, wincing away at the tone of Near’s voice. “Nathan, what if the Phantom comes after you at the grave? What should I do then?” Near, who had taken position to start again, paused with his arms in the air.

“I leave at twelve.” He said finally; in the empty theater and after the moment of silence, his words sounded final and the Vicomte hung his head in defeat. “I will go alone. Do not follow me, sir. I will be back before the third hour, at the latest.” He began his movements again, the conversation finished in his mind. The Vicomte and Phantom watched his graceful movements across the stage.

“As you wish.” The Vicomte said quietly, stepping away from the stage.

XxX

He sat in the cold, shivering in the barn. Beyond, their usual stable hand, lay in the loft silent and unresponsive; the Phantom had hit him over the head with a stray horseshoe, and the man was knocked out instantly. Near had called for the carriage just a moment ago, readying himself to go into the snow as well.

He was grateful that he and Beyond were the same size when wrapped in several coats. Near, as always, seemed none the wiser that the usual stable hand had been changed for the Phantom. He entered into the carriage, murmuring his destination for the Phantom to hear. With a nod, he snapped the reins and the horses took off.

The ride to the cemetery was silent, as always. The Phantom didn't speak, so as to not give up the game. Near was by himself in the carriage; normally he kept the window shut. Today, he'd opened the window and was humming, loud enough that the Phantom heard his voice just barely over the horses. He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his face, urging the horses faster through the empty streets in order to get Near to his father faster.

At the cemetery, he slipped away from the carriage. Going around the outside of the grounds, the Phantom found the tree he used to scale the mausoleum easily. Near’s father had been very much beloved, and had left behind an abundance of wealth for his child to grow up on. Lawliet and Whammy had been good friends with the boy’s father, and so he was given to their care when the man died.

Still, the man had been a world famous violinist. Though he was the most important, Near was by no means the man’s only visitor. As such, the mausoleum that had been built for him was grand and extravagant, as much as it could be while still leaving money for Near when he came of age. The Phantom was grateful for it, because it hid him properly from the world when he came to visit with Near.

He could hear the boy now, as he spoke while crossing the cemetery. He was too eager to speak with his father, not even near the entrance of the man’s grave yet already saying what was on his mind. The Phantom tuned him out, laying across the roof of the crypt and closing his eyes against the sun. What Near had to say to his father was between the two of them, much in the same way Near’s prayers had been his own when he was younger, and the Phantom refused to listen to what he had to say.

“Too many years fighting back tears.” Near’s voice was loud, now, sounding closer and closer with his steps. The Phantom twisted as quietly as he could on the roof, curious in spite of himself. “Why can't the past just die? Wishing you were somehow here again, knowing we must say ‘goodbye’.” His voice was thick and sorrowful, like it always was. The Phantom wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he held himself back; at this point in time, there was no telling how Near would react.

“Try to forgive, teach me to live.” Near had stopped moving; he must be right in front of the crypt now. “Give me the strength to try. No more memories, no more silent tears, no more gazing across the wasted years…” His voice lowered dramatically, practically whispering the last words. The Phantom was so attuned to Near that he heard them anyway, his heart breaking in his chest. “Help me say goodbye…”

Near sounded so lost as he stood in front of his father’s mausoleum, the Phantom couldn't resist; he climbed to the edge of the roof, as quietly as he could and careful not to let himself be seen. He glanced over the edge of the roof as carefully as he could. Near was standing in front of the crypt, staring at the door looking lost and sad.

“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless,” he crooned softly to him, making his voice soothing and loud enough to be heard; Near perked up, twisting his head around to locate the source. “Yearning for my guidance.”

“Angel or father, friend or Phantom,” Near called back uncertainly, twisting in the snow before facing the crypt again, “who is it there staring?”

“Have you forgotten your angel?” He asked gently.

“Angel,” Near sounded far from relieved, but the Phantom didn't feel insulted; the boy stepped closer to the mausoleum, to him, eyes glazing over just a bit as he continued, “oh, speak- - -what endless longing echoes in this whisper?”

“Too long you've wandered in winter,” the elder whispered drawing Near closer with his voice, “far from my fathering gaze.”

“Wildly, my mind beats against you,” Near started.

“You resist, yet your- - -” 

“Yet the soul obeys!” They finished together. The Phantom watched as Near stepped ever closer, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. They spoke together, over each other in desperation to be heard, finishing sentences and words in a jumble of overlapping voices.

“Angel of Music, you denied me- - -”

“Turning from true beauty! Angel of Music, my protector- - -”

“Do not shun me! Come to your strange Angel!” Near was panting for breath now, his cheeks flushed and dark eyes lit up in a way the Phantom hadn't seen for months. He looked the same as usual, and for a moment, the Phantom let the things they've experienced fall away. He inched closer to the edge of the roof, crooning softly again at the danseur. “I am your angel of music. Come to me, Angel of music…”

“Nathan!” Near twisted just slightly at the sound. The Phantom growled, ducking a little more securely behind the roof. There was the sound of a horse’s gallop slowing to a stop, then the Vicomte’s voice out of breath and panicked. “Nathan, you were- - -”

“Did you follow me?” He still sounded dazed, though there was the beginnings of outrage in his voice. The Vicomte ignored it in favor of pulling Near into a hug. Near’s body tensed, but he relaxed quickly and hugged the man back, his hands gripping the back of his shirt.

The Phantom saw red.

Before he could think about it, he’d stood and jumped from the roof to the snow below. They pulled away from each other, startled, for only a moment. Then the Vicomte snarled and threw himself forward, tackling him into the ground.

“Wait!” Near cried, but he wasn't loud enough; the Phantom twisted them both in the snow, pulling his hand back and punching the Vicomte in the face. The other man snarled and threw his leg up, kneeing the Phantom in the gut and creating just enough space for him to get away.

“You…vile…” The Vicomte panted, pushing his hair out of his eyes and ducking under the Phantom’s swing.

“Stay out of this!” The Phantom growled back, and the Vicomte lunged forward again. They stayed upright this time, only because he knocked them both into a graveside stone table. The sharp edge dug into the Phantom’s back, but he refused to let himself be overpowered by the Vicomte.

“Enough!” Near’s voice was louder, and it caught the Phantom’s attention; he turned his head to see Near standing still by his father’s mausoleum, his hands clenched and tears trailing their way down his face. Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and he clapped his hands to his mouth.

“Near…” He whispered, quietly, and then yelled in pain. The Vicomte had produced a small knife and, just as the Phantom turned, thrust it downward. The Phantom had moved automatically, his arm deflecting the knife before he was truly conscious of it, but it still cut into his neck. Blood and pain welled, and he threw the Vicomte to the floor.

“Stop!” Near’s voice was much closer now, the Phantom pulling his own knife before realizing his vision was blocked; Near had forced himself between them, his back to the Phantom and his arms out. His back was heaving, and his arms shook, but he didn't move.

“Out of the way, Nathan!” The Vicomte growled, pushing strands of his long hair out of his eyes.

“No.” Near’s voice was firm even though it was shaking. He took a deep breath and said, “that's enough. No more fighting.” There was silence, broken only by the sound of their panting, before Near’s voice rang out again. “No more.”

“Let’s go.” The Vicomte sounded just as furious, and he didn't wait for a reply; his footsteps sounding harsh and loud in the snow, he took Near by the arm and led him to the entrance to the cemetery.

The Phantom panted, pressing his fingers to the shallow cut on his neck. Snarling, he pulled himself up and turned on his heel to follow after them, but stopped almost instantly; Near had turned his head, just enough to pin him with his dark gaze.

_No more_ , his eyes seemed to say, _stop your fighting_.

He watched, frozen in anger, as Near turned to the Vicomte again, getting onto the man’s horse with no complaint. They rode off, the Phantom’s gaze never leaving them as they left together.

So then. Nathan had made his choice, and the Phantom was left with the ball in his court. Snarling, he turned away, heading towards his own entrance to the crypt; he couldn't leave behind the horse and carriage, lest Beyond get in trouble for it.

If Nathan would choose comfort and riches over all, then perhaps it was time to put on a truly magnificent show of power.


	11. Chapter 11

The Phantom was in a foul mood, and it was because of Misa Amane.

She was decidedly unhappy with her role as a background character, and was very vocal about it. He’d taken to watching rehearsals from the rafters, making notes about the things he wanted rearrange or changed entirely. He'd already changed much of the orchestra at this point, and had rearranged the dancers accordingly with Lawliet. There was no room for favorites in his opera, and he intended to have the very best the Opera House had to offer shine through.

And at this point, he was very seriously considering just cutting Miss Amane from the opera, permanently.

“This is just ridiculous!” She was screeching right now. Lawliet was looking impassively from left stage, where he was standing with a newly withdrawn Nathan; Roger, their conductor, was frowning at her sternly. Misa noticed neither look, instead storming up to Roger and pointing at the notes she was having trouble with. “Look at this!”

“Misa, love…” Kira was murmuring from his spot, his eyes glancing up into the darkness of the rafters as if he could spot the Phantom. Misa ignored him, practically shoving the papers into Roger’s face.

“Miss Amane,” the man sighed, but Misa’s shrill voice overpowered his.

“No, Roger, no!” She snapped. “Look at this! This is not even my full potential. Not a single one of these notes goes into my higher range. How am I to show off my skills if I'm not to use them?”

“You shouldn't complain.” Nathan’s voice was monotone and bland, drawing attention to him instantly. He shuffled awkwardly under the attention, his shoulders rolling. “It is considered impolite, Miss Amane, to complain about the author’s work to his face. You should know this already, given your supposed status as our prima Donna.”

“Hush your mouth!” Misa snapped at him, and the Phantom’s temper flared even more. He forced it down, reminding himself that Nathan had chosen the Vicomte and wouldn't want his interference anyway. “The author is not present anyway!”

“Are you quite certain of that?” His voice was quiet and stern, and it echoed in the theater space. Misa’s face blanched, and she shot terrified eyes up into the rafters. Everyone else did the same, huddling together in fear, as if he would come swooping down to pick them off one by one.

What a tense Opera House this was, he mused as he paced the catwalk silently. How ever are they going to get anything done with the way they were waiting for death to come from the shadows? He considered a reprimand, in the form of a letter from the sky, when Misa surprised him by pulling down the papers to her side.

She was trembling, he noticed, but not from any rage she still had; her face was open and terrified, tears gathering in her large blue eyes and spilling down her face faster than she could blink them away. Stepping back until her back met Kira’s shoulder, Misa took a trembling breath and held the papers so she could look at the notes again.

“From the top, then.” She said quietly. Kira had his hand on her side, shooting venomous looks up into the rafters, but the Phantom couldn't bring himself to focus on that; Misa was finally bowing to his whims, even if she was completely terrified of him, and a pleased spark shot up his spine.

If he'd known that this would be what it took to get her to cooperate, the Phantom should have been willing to put Nathan aside much sooner.

Granted, he mused, it wasn't as though it was completely on him; even now, Nathan would glance upwards into the darkness. He seemed to be waiting, but for what, the Phantom couldn't figure it out. His performances fluctuated. Some days, his signing would be completely on pitch, without a flaw gracing his performance. He kept his back straight, his head high, his movements calculated and graceful.

Today, his pitch was off. His shoulders were slouched, and he couldn't seem to keep the timing right. The Phantom snarled quietly, watching as Nathan went through practice no better than Misa. It was almost like he was doing this on purpose.

The Phantom glowered. Nathan would play the role designated for him, whether he wanted to or not.

XxX

He landed heavily on his sofa, stretching out until his feet were pressed against one armrest and his arms over the other one. Directing his opera from the shadows was hard work, much harder than he thought it would be, but it was proving to be so much more rewarding. The managers were finally listening to him, Misa was being less of a nuisance, and even though they were terrified, the entire opera populations were performing better than ever.

He sat up after a moment, cracking his neck and bringing himself to a stand. There were still plans to be made and put into motion, and he could not stand to be idle.

He crossed his living space to his room, pulling the door open and entering quickly. On his bed, where he’d left it, was the costume he’d begun making for himself. Nathan’s costume, he had no doubt, would be made to his exact specifications.

His own would be a bit tricky. He and Kira were roughly the same build, but the costuming for Act 1 and Act 2 were vastly different. He would be interceding, and he would not only have to find a way to keep Kira backstage without alerting the others, he would have to ensure that nobody off stage knew that he had taken the man’s place.

The costume itself was simple: a black mask, black pants, and a white shirt beneath a black vest; it was the cape, dark and elegant and heavy, that would give the Phantom trouble. He set to work, losing himself in the repetitive motions that sewing provided. Lawliet had taught him, when he was much younger and much angrier, how to embroider crochet

Being young and explosive meant he’d hated the lessons. They’d been pointless, he felt, and difficult. Lawliet had infinite patience, though, and slowly he’d gotten the hang of it. Now it was simple and calming, and something the Phantom threw his entire focus into when he needed to.

“Lawliet.” He said simply, not looking up. He was halfway done with the section of the cape he was working on, and his hands had built a sure and steady rhythm he didn’t want to break.

“Hello, little one.” Lawliet settled himself across from him, looking only a little out of place on his bed. It had been some time since Lawliet felt the need to come into his room and relax with him, and the Phantom put his things to the side rather than continue working. “Your play goes well.”

“I’m excited for the world to see it at last.” He said softly. He ran his hand down the finished side of his cape, feeling the edges of the thread with his fingertips. “With Nathan as my star and me as the opposing lead, it shall truly be something to remember.”

“Indeed it shall.” Lawliet took the other end of the cape, and the Phantom resumed his sewing. Lawliet began as well, and they worked in silence for the remainder of the night.

XxX

Opening night was a blur of chaotic movements. The Phantom oversaw what he could of stage set up, warm ups for the dancers, musicians, and singers; he saw Lawliet, here and there, amongst the crowd, but he never got a chance to speak with the ballet teacher.

There he was, directing the dancers through their last set of warm ups. And then, over in the other corner, Roger leading the musicians through their notes. Misa and Kira were in their dressing room, preparing themselves for the stage and whispering amongst themselves.

That last but would have been unnoticeable to him had he not noticed Takada and Mikami doing the same. It gave him pause, like it had with the managers, and something pulled at the back of his mind. They were plotting something, he could tell; what it was, he couldn’t say. He hadn't spoken to Nathan at all, not since the cemetery, and though he'd kept in contact with Lawliet, the ballet teacher didn't know anything either. He seemed frustrated, for the same reason the Phantom was. There was a plot in the air, but neither knew what it was.

The Phantom walked through the tunnels he'd created in his lifetime in the opera house, fingers trailing along the stone. No matter how the night ended, he would be leaving this place tonight. He'd decided upon it when he gave the play to the managers that masquerade ball, and he had no plans to return. There was a bittersweet feeling in his chest at the thought; it was no longer his opera house, but it had been his home for the past sixteen years of his life, and he was very reluctant to leave it in his past.

Here was where he'd met Lawliet. He'd been accepted here, for the most part, and tolerate far better than he'd been before. Watari had even talked of him fondly, most likely due to Lawliet being his favorite, and though the rest of the population was terrified out of its wits, they’d been oddly uncooperative with the managers this past week.

He'd met Near here, his little Near, who had outgrown him quite easily with the aid of his precious Vicomte. The thought made his chest tighten, and the Phantom found himself walking towards their little alcove, where they practiced singing and had grown to learn each other. It would be his last time seeing it, perhaps for the rest of his life, and the Phantom felt he could begin the next chapter of his life once he'd said a proper goodbye to Near.

To Near, his precious little prodigy, not Nathan.

He stopped; voice were echoing off the stone, the sound familiar even though the words and tone were not. It was Nathan and the Vicomte, and the Phantom felt his heart lurch. He didn't want to hear what they had to say, and he turned to go.

Nathan’s voice was loud as he said, “this plan of yours will fail, even with me in it.”

“The only way it'll fail is if the Phantom knows.” The Vicomte’s voice was sure and stubborn, in that childish way he was. “Does he know, Nathan?”

“I couldn't say.” Nathan said. His voice was tired and just a little muffled; he was facing away, to the window. “He might have his suspicions. He might not know at all. He didn't hear it from me, though. We haven't spoken at all since…” His voice trailed off, silent and slow. There was a heavy moment between the main, and the Phantom found himself drawing ever closer.

“I asked before if you wanted him caught.” The Vicomte sounded gentle. “And you gave…a roundabout answer. We must know, Nathan. Do you want this man caught and brought to justice?”

“Twisted every way, what answer can I give?” Nathan asked sourly, pressing himself closer against the window. He sounded miserable and tired, curling into himself and away from the Vicomte; it made his voice echo even more. “Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live?”

“Nathan, please…”

“Should I betray the man who’s inspired my voice?” Nathan’s voice broke. “Do I become his prey? Do I have any choice?”

“You know you don't.” The Vicomte said quietly. “He kills without a thought, he murders all that's good in this theater.”

“I know I can't refuse.” Nathan snapped. The Phantom, curious, trailed the alcove slowly until he came to the point he always stood for training; he could see the room clearly now, see how Nathan leaned against the wall and away from the Vicomte, and how the Vicomte looked frustrated and so very tired. “I wish I could. Oh, God, if I agree what horrors will wait for me in this, our Phantom’s opera?”

“Nathan, little Nathan, don't think that I don't care.”

“You don't.” Nathan’s voice stopped the Vicomte cold, and the man could only gape at him. Near took a shuddering breath, one that shook his whole body, and continued. “You haven't consulted me, any of you. You and Mikami and Takada, you're all thinking of yourselves. You haven't asked for Lawliet’s opinion, and you haven't asked for mine.”

“Lawliet’s a teacher, nothing more- - -”

“Lawliet’s been here a lot longer than you, sir,” Nathan said sharply, turning at last to face him, “and his words hold more weight than Mikami and Takada’s. Why do you think the theater’s been so uncooperative?” He stood on the windowsill, hunching over just a bit so that his head didn't bump against the stone. He looked like an inverted version of Lawliet, especially with the dark glower on his face.

“Nathan…?”

“And what of me?” He asked. “I, who have been closest to the Phantom since I was young. I, who have been taught personally by the man? This supposed ‘monster’ you think you know is not the same man I know. He frightens, yes, he terrorizes Misa Amane, but he is no killer.”

“Time changes people.” The Vicomte said. His voice was worn, as if they’d had this argument often in the past days. “Time changes people, and he may not be the same man you thought you knew, Nathan. If he's killed once, he's killed before, and he will do so again.” He stood as well, though he took the step to get off of the window ledge so he stood straight. “Our every hope and every prayer of stopping him rests on you now.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken for the Phantom only with his pounding heart. Nathan made a quiet noise, one of disgust and sorrow, but he stepped down. Refusing the Vicomte’s hand, Nathan held his head high as he strode from the room, the Vicomte following behind him.

The Phantom watched them go, unmoving. His mind raced at what he'd overheard, leaving him shellshocked in the cramped hallway even after Near and the Vicomte left.

Was it possible for him to get his little Near back?


End file.
